Read aloud to me alt Taylor

by Kahlil Johnson

Dnd

48. B1

Worm is a web serial by wildbow that is quite excellent. This is a derivative work, not made for profit.

What if the Shaper shard and the Queen Administrator switched places? How would our favorite black-haired munchkin function? An altpower!Taylor (wait, don't leave!) with a few extra frills. Omakes are listed under the Sidestory, should you be so inclined.

Fanart by Phinnia. Check out their thread here!

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Even MORE fanart, this time by Seffai Studios, commissioned by ThirdCircle

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Good Lord, even more fanart! This time curtesy of zapheron :

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Without further ado:

Algor Mortis 1.1

Someone starts knocking on the stall door. I don't look up from my pita wrap. All the other stalls are empty, so if someone wants to use the restroom, they're more than welcome to pick a different stall.

I hear some chattering, and the stalls on either side of me open up. Coincidence? Maybe. Probably? No. I re-wrap my lunch, place it carefully in my backpack, and close the bag, schooling my features into a mask. I've practiced in the mirror and I'd like to think I've gotten pretty good at hiding my emotions. I can't stop myself from feeling absolutely livid whenever I put up with the Trio, but damned if they have to know.

I wait for them to start. Come on, do your worst.

"Found you!" a sickeningly sweet voice calls out from above me. I look up and get greeted by a face full of grape juice, with orange soda not far behind. It doesn't take much effort to keep from flinching, and through the film of drink on my glasses I get a look at the two responsible for this particular prank. Madison and Sophia, giggling like it's the funniest thing in the world. Like this helps them, somehow, to make my life miserable. I can already feel my shirt beginning to fuse to my hoodie, the disgusting feeling of stickiness on skin. Mask, Taylor. Keep the mask on.

They get down from the dividers and I take a moment to use some toilet paper to dry my glasses. Once I've cleaned myself up a little bit I stand up and open the stall door to face my tormentors. Madison Clements, Sophia Hess, and Emma Barnes, all looking happier than the cat who caught the canary. They look at me, covered in stickiness and standing emotionless. They laugh, looking for tears, for anger, for anything they can use, twist and throw back at me.

Fuck 'em.

I stare at them, keeping the mask on. Madison is the first one to stop, sneering one last time and practically skipping off. Sophia follows, dismissing me with her eyes. Emma looks me up and down, one last time, appraising. I keep my eyes locked on hers and my hands at my sides.

Mask on. Mask on. Keep it up.

She nods, as if she's finished up a masterpiece, all stoic pleasantness and satisfaction. Then she turns away, paying me no mind as she walks out the door, already adopting the walk that shows off her figure best, all swaying hips and bouncing hair. I track her with my eyes, and then turn to the old, dirty mirror over the sinks to asses the damage.

My hoodie's ruined, with orange and purple stains decorating the shoulders. I twist a little and see my upper back is also soaked, with streaks of purple and orange going up and down, like lashes. The top of my backpack got covered, but a quick check of the contents assuages my fears. Everything is intact. Now I just need to murder something and-

I cut that thought off, putting on the mask. Can't freak out. Won't freak out. Not here. I breathe. In. Out. Deep and relaxing.

It's not enough. I work my jaw and lift my hand in front of me to chest height. Then I push.

The skin of my hand parts, revealing a bud of bone. It parts and pushes up farther, slowly opening into wafer thin petals. A rose, white, with thorns running up the stem. Picture perfect. It took a lot of failure to make it look like a real flower. More to make it look like it grew in time-lapse. I can feel the tension draining out of me, seeing something bloom from me.

It takes a minute to become perfect. One minute where I can lose myself in the intricacies of calcium and collagen. Then I grasp it near the base (careful to keep my fingers unpricked) and snap it off.

I hiss. A little. Not nearly as much as I did when I was first testing my limits. I push my bone back into it's normal shape (the skin healing back over itches like nothing else) and I put the rose into my backpack, right next to my art project.

Fuck. Art. I look in the mirror. A mess stares back at me. I can't go to class like this. Can't put up with the semi-pitying stares, the snickering, the increasing levels of bullshit that lead to me eviscerating-

Mask up. I school myself into calm. In. Out. Control the breath, control the rage. I head out of the bathroom and walk out of school, keeping to the under-used hallways. In. Out. A few of the kids give me looks. I ignore them. The mask is still on.

The bus ride has more looks. I ignore them. The mask is still on.

I get home and drop my bag by my door. I make a mental note to put it away somewhere where Dad won't see before he gets back home. I step into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and strip off my filthy clothes. I don't even wait for the shower to hit a reasonable temperature before I step in, ignoring the cold. Mask is still on.

Then I drop the mask and fall to the floor, gasping.

Fuck fuck fuck. How'd it all get so fucked? None of the pranks on their own (except for the docks, I think bitterly to myself) were that bad. Pleasant? No. Bearable? Yes. I had my power, my plans for being a hero, I had Dad. I had options to get out of it. I had a coping mechanism, so why do I immediately default to extreme fucking violence to solve my bullying problem? I could force it down and that would work for a while. Thing is, they have infinite opportunity to torture me. if I lose control once, I could kill someone. Then I'd be branded a villain. Goodbye hero-career. I sob a little, salt replaced with heavy-metal flavoring as the shower pounds my face. After a few more minutes of desperate gasping I feel my tears stop coming. Good. Good. I'm Getting better. I feel the goosebumps on my skin from the freezing water and see the slight pruning on my fingers. How long have I spent in the shower? I giggle a little, unbalanced and desperate.

God, I needed an outlet.

The water finally hits a reasonable temperature, and I stand up and start cleaning myself. Convex bone protrusions sprung under where I felt the stickiness most. Pain, not as bad as snapping off a rose (and isn't that a great euphemism for breaking my own bones?) follows, and entire sections of my skin slough off. A neat trick I picked up when I realized I didn't scar when my bones broke my skin. I used it to get rid of all sorts of little imperfections. I thought a nice, clear complexion would be one fewer things they could use against me.

-Wow Taylor, you were finally able to get some surgery! Maybe now you can look a little bit more like your mother! Why not take the final step and jump off a dock?-

I feel the protrusions curl around me protectively. I push them back underneath, enduring the sudden itching that follows my weird sort-of regeneration. Not going to think back now. Not in house.

I shut off the water, towel off, and tug on some clothes. The strips of filthy skin (mercifully bloodless) get thrown in a garbage bag I've made a habit of keeping in my room. It's not so full I have to burn it, but it's getting there. Now that I feel more like a human being, I drag out my notebook (blessedly free of stains) and turn to an empty page to really think about how my hero career should go. I've put it off for too long, experimenting where no one can see and keeping quiet. As a result, I haven't been looking forward. Time to hammer this out.

I could keep enduring. Do nothing. I cross the option out as soon as I write it down. I can't be sure if (or when) I'll snap, and lives hang in the balance. Best not to rely on something fragile as my self control.

I could join the Wards. I snort as I cross it out, right below 'nothing'. Even if I wanted to put up with working with a bunch of other teenagers, my power isn't exactly family friendly. Introducing Calcium Queen, the hero who tears open her own skin and has freaky bone spikes, a poster child for self-harm! I'd go over really well with the parents of Jane and Joe Citizen. That, and I'd have to tell Dad about my powers...

I shake my head. No. Wards are out.

I could join a gang. Not asian enough for ABB (one bullet point ex'd out), not drugged enough for Merchants (another), and not Nazi enough for E88 (last one gone). No major gang that I could join cleanly. That and, hey, criminal activity. I'll be damned if I'm driven to crime because I couldn't take some abuse. They're not that strong.

I think about some other options, chewing on the eraser. New Wave is an option. I could be an independent, like Shadow Stalker was. Or do something non-combative, like Parian. I write them each across the sheet at the top, then draw a line between each one. Pros and Cons.

New Wave. An Alexandria-lite, some powerful blasters, a decent Brute, and the best medical care parahumanly possible. Safety in numbers is a thing, and if they're recruiting it wouldn't be a bad gig.

Getting recruited is the problem though, I think, twirling the pencil around my finger before bringing it back to the page. They're all family, I know that much. I'm not sure how much they want to expand, or if I'd have to unmask. I might have to tell Dad my powers, which (again) is a deal breaker. That, and even with all that fire power Fleur still got killed. I write 'if they ask and offer good option' under the short list of details. Worth looking into.

Independant. The Protectorate does a good job at making the fatality rate of independent heroes public knowledge, and that it's pretty fucking terrible. Other than that though, the indies have a good job. The legal system is setup to help you, with the Vigilante Acts giving you full opportunity to grab whatever cash the criminals have on them, as well as paying bounty of drugs and firearms. Plus, there're a lot of overlooked assault charges as long as you don't go to far (like, say, shooting criminals with lethal ammunition). Other independent heroes say that not being a dick is usually enough to make sure you don't get too badly injured. I scribble down 'decent option' under the even shorter list of bullet points and move onto the last option.

Parian. Brockton Bay's only Rogue, with the ability to manipulate fabric and create stuffed animals. Currently running a boutique, catering to cape geeks and rich people with too much money. I go back to spinning the pencil and rub my chin thoughtfully. How can I economize my powers?

Bone marrow transfusions? Most of those are donations, so I'm not sure how much of a market there is. Plus, Isidis probably covers anything sufficiently serious. Skin grafts? Again, not sure there's a market for it. Art? Parahuman stuff always sells, but I suck at sculpting. Then again, I don't know how good Parian's stuff is. I was never into the fashion scene, always putting up with that traitorous bitch's attempts to pretty me up-

Stop. Mask. I notice my pencil's broken, snapped between a pair of bone-armored fingers. I toss aside the broken eraser end and pull the bone back under. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, pressing my glasses up in the process. In. Out. After letting out the breath through my nose, I open my eyes back up and go back to the page.

The economical option is nice, but if I don't hit something soon I might go Freddy Kruger on the school. I write 'nice in theory, but not currently viable' under the Parian column, as well as a note to read some books on sculpting. Maybe I can do some modern art, pull in five figures, and pretend like I found a sack of drug money under a bench when I give it to Dad.

Yeah, real convincing.

I look a the page. New Wave, Independant, and Parian. New Wave might not take and Parian won't give me any catharsis. Guess that leaves going out on patrol. I head down into the basement, absentmindedly flicking on the lights, illuminating the bare boards above and slightly chipped concrete floor below. And the mirror.

More than six feet tall and clear as open sky, with a worn bronze frame that depicted laughing skeletons, all rictus grins and spindly fingers. The old man on the boardwalk couldn't be rid of it fast enough, said it creeped out his grandkids. That's probably a fair reaction if you don't think the skeletons are laughing with you. I initially picked it up to get a discount on the close-cut prescription athletic goggles, but it grew on me.

I strip, put on the goggles, and look at the mirror. An unimpressive, thin, gawky teenager looks back. With a just-too-large mouth, no curves to speak of, and owlish eyes, I wouldn't put myself above the median in looks. I've seen pictures of mom, and it gets better, assuming dad's genes don't become dominant. That doesn't help me now.

I close my eyes and push with my power. I remember the patterns I've been working on for these past three months, modeled after medieval plate armor. Comfortingly warm bone crawls over me, forming thick plates with ablative shells, barely attached. Loose at the joints for mobility and lighter that any metal. Apparently sometimes stronger, too. Fun fact, bone has one of the best strength-to-weight ratios in the world. For a second I lose myself in the gentle, soothing embrace of my power. It's pleasant. Like a full-body hug.

When I open my eyes and look at the mirror, Taylor, the perfectly average girl, isn't there. Instead, I see a woman with a nearly-supermodel figure, all long legs, slim hips and clean limbs. Segmented armor covers every bit of her skin, reminiscent of ancient knights. She's in lifts, putting her well over six feet. I'd heard other girls complain about walking in heels, but walking in ones made of bone felt... natural.

I look at the mask. A full-face close helm, with vertical slits for breath and vision, skin concealed in shadows. My hair, Mom's beautiful black hair, trails from the back, forming a dark plume behind me.

Taylor was hidden. The White Rose remained.

Last edited: Feb 4, 2019

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Oct 21, 2017

#55

Hey, a weekly update schedule. How long will I be able to keep this uP?

Algor Mortis 1.2

Wandering the Docks at just past midnight, an entirely inappropriate thought springs to mind: how long does it take to find a crime in a city with roughly the eighth-highest concentration of parahumans in the states?

The thing is, even in Brockton Bay, crime isn't all that common. Sure, we've got a higher homicide rate than ninety percent of the country, but you're still more likely to get hit by a car than run into an E88'r out for blood. I can't expect to run into criminals with any regularity on a random patrol, even if I spend most of my time in the Docks. Nor should I want that. If wandering the streets automatically led to an encounter with a crime-in-progress, the city would be condemned.

I understand that my inability to exercise violence is a good thing. That doesn't keep the rage at bay, though. At this point I'm almost ready to seek out a Nazi bar and ask for directions to the closest pit fight.

Maybe this was a bad time. I didn't go out on Friday night, since I didn't have a route planned and couldn't have disappeared without Dad noticing. So instead I cooked dinner and sat down to eat with him. Half an hour of forced small talk, mixed with silent wondering at this man who is my father. Responsible for my stick-thin figure and my too-large mouth.

I feel a spike of guilt for bashing Dad, and I try to turn it around. I got my height from him, too. Maybe my powers, now that I think about it. There's a correlation in families, like with New Wave. One theory is as good as any other when none have support, right?

I also went out on Saturday night and found nothing. A good sign for the population, but a terrible thing for my urge to ram a spike of bone into someone and rip and tear until-

In. Out. Breathe. I idly flex the visor of my helm, reveling in the sharpening feeling that accompanies the almost-pain. Mask on, Rose. Mask on.

I catch sight of a group of teenagers walking down the street, dressed up in greens and reds. I duck into a nearby alleyway and take a look at their faces. Asian, in red and green, in the middle of the night? In Brockton Bay, marking them as ABB members isn't profiling, it's a survival instinct. Another part of that survival instinct is running away, which I quash as I fall in step behind them. Maybe they're coming back from a successful crime. Maybe they're just hanging out. But maybe, just maybe, I can find something cathartic to do.

It takes a few minutes for them to join up with a larger group just outside a large two-story building, and it was at that point that I began to regret looking for trouble. Twenty or thirty gang members, all looking ready to start a fight. I stay inside an alleyway, wishing I could change the color of my bones into something less conspicuous. Could I fight them all? Maybe, depending on how many guns they had. I had tested my armor by dropping increasing large pieces of metal on them, but I had no idea how that translated into number of bullets I could block. What if they swarmed me? I could stab the gangsters, yeah, but I didn't want to kill them. Just send them to the police with a few injuries.

My thinking gets interrupted when I see a six-foot plus Asian man in a metallic dragon mask walk out the building. Lung, perhaps the single most individually dangerous parahuman in Brockton Bay. He started talking to the crowd and though I could hear him clearly, I was too busy considering my chances against him to listen. A pyrokinetic brute that got stronger the longer he fought. A villain that had taken on entire teams of heroes at once and left victorious. Way out of my weight class. I suddenly wish my hands weren't covered in plates of bone. That way I could wipe the clammy sweat off.

The rage would have to wait for another day. I turn on my heel to leave.

"-the children, just shoot. Doesn't matter your aim, just shoot. You see one lying on the ground? Shoot the little bitch twice to be sure. We give them no chance to be clever or lucky, understand?"

Well, when he puts it like that, there's only one way for a hero to respond.

I turn on my heel again and stride out of the alley and into the street. Lung takes all of a second to turn and face me. Odd, I don't think bone on concrete is that loud. Something to check.

"Who are you?" he asks disdainfully, rolling his shoulders and looking me up and down. I remain silent and keep walking. More than half the distance covered, and if I can get closer maybe I can put him down before anything-

Lung gestures and my world is fire.

The pain of having bare bone exposed to flame is indescribable. The worst parts of putting a hand on a stove and breaking a rib, except so much more. I scream, falling to my knees. God, why does it hurt so much? I drop the burned plates with another hiss of pain and regrow them. Loud, flat claps, accompanied by the more familiar pain of plates of bone shattering and chipping individually as I shudder from each one. Fuck, guns! I was shot! Multiple times! From the corner of my goggles I catch sight of an over-eager gang banger approaching with a nail-studded bat. I whip my arm forward while pushing out a needle of bone from my hand. A line of red is cut into his face and the teen hisses in pain and stumbles backwards, swearing.

The claps (gunfire?) have stopped and Lung is striding forward with something that looks close to amusement in his eyes. I steel myself a little. Push through. Mask is on. In. Out. Doesn't matter, have to take down the regular gang members. Can't have them shooting kids. I get up and start walking again. When Lung gets in close and tries to pulp my head with a fist, I duck under and spin past him, pushing myself via my shell, extending and retracting the bone around my body. It took a month to learn how to keep my balance while moving under my power, and longer for it to be faster than walking. Once I'm behind the dragon, I flick out a blade of bone to cut the muscles on the back of his legs and move on. Lung finds it remarkably difficult to stand without his Achilles tendon. Not sure how long it'll take for him to heal that. A different 'banger charges, a black-haired girl no older than I am. Go easy then. I lash out with a bone club at her jaw and get an unfortunate crunch for my troubles. She falls to the alley floor and I resolve to lower the amount of force I'm going to use on the rest of the gang.

Something ugly grabs my stomach when I see her scamper away. In the low light, I could almost mistake her for a sister.

The rest of the group is backing up. Why? My world is fire again and I barely manage to keep down a scream. Ah. Right. Dragon-man. Right behind me but still capable of throwing fire. He can wait. Ah ha ha ha, Lung can wait. I push down the pain and hysteria and charge the normals, forming a pair of big, showy blades in either hand. They run. Good.

I turn around and catch a fist to my face. Silly me, I thought I was scary. They were running from Lung, the dragon man that wants me dead. The bone lattice in my mask collapses, folding like a car fender to lessen the impact. Then the bone plate behind it flexes, almost breaking. Every broken spindle is suffering, but I'm alive.

Then Lung raises his hand and once again my world is fire. This time I send out needles from my back as I stagger, hoping to find flesh.

I slip, feeling concrete impact my back. There's a roar of rage, almost not human. I struggle to my feet and watch Lung pulls spines from his chest with slick, sucking noises. He's definitely taller now too, and I see some scales peeking over his skin.

"Kill you, motherfucker," he manages, mask falling to the ground. "Kill you dead."

I run out of the street and back into the alley. Maybe I can lose the dragon man and not get burned. I stifle a noise, not sure if it was a laugh or a scream. On the one hand, some goddamn wish fulfillment! Finally! On the other hand, I'm in a fight with Lung! Fuck!

There's a whoosh, and I take a look over my shoulder in time to see Lung charging after me, fire illuminating the cramped alley. Fuck. Too close to run. I turn fully to face him and press bone pillars out from my boots, turning a retreat into a charge of my own. I slip beneath his outstretched arms, project a bone spike from my chestplate to stop his knee (a joint the size of my head), and slam a lance of bone through his stomach, angling up to get at the squishy organs. I have the momentum, and we're both flying back out into the street, tearing at one another. The pain is manageable when measured against the missing chunks of flesh from Lung.

Then the other knee comes around and crunches into my side. Agony. We break apart and I skid across the ground, using bone protrusions to turn it into a roll, then to standing. No good route away yet, and he's getting bigger. Lung pushes a hand towards me and a wave of fire answers, head height or more, completely obscuring my vision. I extend my own hands and form a wall of bone, snapping off my connection once it's twice as wide as my outstretched arms. The fracture hurts, but it's barely registers as a twinge compared to having my shell set alight. Then I step the side and wait. Come on, take the bait you overgrown lizard. Do it do it do it do it do it.

Lung crashes through, sending chunks of bone everywhere, already reaching for where I was. I slam a lance into his side, the shaft splintering a little as it slips through the barely-there gaps in his armor. I hiss at the feeling of ripped fingernail and torn scabs from when the lance scrapes against the edge of his scales. Huh, he's nearly covered now. That means I won't be able to hurt him for much longer.

Then I form spikes inside him and spin them around, pureeing his organs. He tries to roar, but it comes out as a pained gasp. It doesn't stop him from backhanding me, and I roll with it, feeling only stings where bone plates scrape against asphalt, not shatter. It can't be a tenth of what he feels. Maybe I can run now.

By the time I'm back up Lung's torn the lance from his stomach, leaving gore on the ground. Hm, there's a lot of that around, isn't there? And he seems no worse for wear. Ah ha ha ha, he's no-selling enough trauma to kill people. Also, that did not incapacitate him for as long as I had hoped it would. He's even taller now, at least ten feet. He bends over, a pair of protrusions emerging from his back. Maybe he does grow wings. I probably won't be able to run if that happens. When he gets back up to standing, he's closer to twelve feet. He looks at me, mouth more feline than human, with something in between rage and caution in his eyes.

Caution?

He charges, wreathing himself in a corona of flames, blue-white and hot enough to feel through armor. Every step tears up a chunk of pavement, until he leaps no less than two stories and aims for me. Perfect.

I brace against the ground and make a pillar of bone, pointed and sharp. Lung tries, but he can't alter his flight enough to avoid it. He howls when his own weight impales him, and the sound of it soothes away the moment of blinding white misery from when the dragon's weight is too much and the pike shatters.

I roll away before he can crush me and scramble to my feet, reorienting myself. Then I take a moment to really look at Lung. He stands as high as the buildings now, mouth splitting into four separate jaws, every inch of skin covered with metallic scales. He bellows, shaking the few unshattered windows in their frames, a silver juggernaut illuminated by fire and a single unbroken street lamp.

I laugh at him with that shaky, warbling laugh that the really crazy people have. It's probably too late to run. Maybe I'll die. But goddamn if this isn't more fun than Current Affairs.

Then something fast, blue and silver slams into Lung's knee from behind and he staggers. An opening. I push forward, projecting and retracting bone pillars to gain height and speed, enough total velocity that the trash-can sized club I slam into his howling mouth breaks teeth. There's a clap, louder than any of the gang members', and Lung falls to his knees. Something like the sound of a sledge hammer against a bag of nickels only so much more so happens just behind him and I get thrown free, using my bones to cut the air and guide my fall.

Strange. Don't remember practicing that.

When I roll back to my feet, I see a man in silver and blue power armor dancing around Lung's feet, swinging a polearm with a glowing blade, leaving charred gouges where it meets metallic scale. Another man launches lighting, flitting between blasts of flame in flickers of light. Every so often Lung staggers from an invisible force, and the clap of gunfire comes in close behind. I see a glowing figure smacking a red one in intervals. Then the red figure becomes a blur, there's another nickels and sledgehammers sound and Lung's chest caves in, the man in red retreating to the glowing figure.

The Protectorate. I feel a little hope. Then I quash it. Mask. Back to the fight. Running now wouldn't be the heroic thing to do.

I dash in, retracting and projecting bone to lengthen and quicken my steps, adding extensions modeled after a sprinter's prosthetics. A thunderbolt screams, and a blackened patch of scales falls off Lung. I jump, dead in the air for a split second, and slide a spear of bone into his chest, already growing spikes in the cavity, looking for something to slice. I get a swipe of an arm larger than some motorcycles for my troubles, and manage to avoid pancaking into the pavement by judicious application of long, bendy columns of bone that take the force, then snap. Pain. Once I'm on the ground again, I take a moment to process it.

"Who are you?"

I spin around and form a pair of bone needles from my wrists. Red bodysuit, with black racing stripes meeting into a 'V' on the chest. Velocity, the local speedster. I manage to not react with extraordinary violence.

He raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Chill, we're on the same side, if what you did to Lung is any indication. Are you willing to work with us?"

A roar punctuates the background. His hands drop and he yells "RUN!" before disappearing in a red blur. I take his advice, juking left just in time to be roasted rather than crushed. More pain. Shed the armor, push off the ground, run. Can't take him on my own, and he's beaten the local team into running multiple times. Maybe retreat is the heroic thing here.

I flee, dodging blasts of flame and feet large enough to crush dumpsters. In between moments of panic, I catch sight of the heroes of the city at work. Armsmaster, all whirling blades and precision. Assault, a red blur that infrequently hits Lung with the force of his partner Battery's punches. The ever present staggers and twitches from Lung, work of Dauntless from up high and Miss Militia from who knows how far away. With the Protectorate running interference, I manage to run fast enough to stay alive. There's a red blur, and something's taped to my mask. Can't see it, but there's a beeping noise and suddenly someone's talking.

"Unidentified parahuman, are you willing to help combat Lung?" A gruff voice, coming from what's probably a radio, one that reminds me of the less sociable Dock workers Dad sometimes put up at our house when things got bad.

I'm too out of breath to do anything other than nod and hope that it goes through. Maybe who ever built the thing added a motion tracking function? Fuck, running for your life is tiring. I corner, extend a hooked pole to catch a light post, and swing to the side, keeping as much momentum as possible as I take a moment to look back. Lung tries to follow, tries being the operative word. He has too much mass and stumbles, giving a red blur enough time to catch him. Not Velocity, given the sledge hammer and nickels sound as Lung's knee explodes. Assault moves back as Lung starts struggling to his feet, flesh already moving back over the bone. Bone.

I reach out and pull. His kneecap bends to my will, inverting and forming a rose head out of habit. Lung roars in pain and I feel something resisting my power, trying to pull the bones back into place. I flex my power once more and snap the bone along the petals before rounding another corner, eager to get away.

Huh. No pain when breaking other people's bones. Good to know. Back to running.

A red blur with black streaks pulls up beside me and starts talking. "Were the bones you?"

I nod. In. Out. Keep running.

"What are your limits?" he presses, voice coming out distorted and strange. I shrug, holding up my index finger.

"First time you-" the rest is cut off when a shadow appears over both of us and we split off, clearing the street as the now-fully winged dragon man to crash down between us.

An incoherent roar shakes me to my bones and another wave of fire rolls over me. Agony. I fall to a knee and look up. And up. And up. Lung looms, easily twenty five feet tall, inhuman and surrounded by flame.

I freeze up as I realize I'm about to die. I'm going to become a statistic. Just another independent hero, dead in the streets, used to convince kids to join the Wards.

Then there's another sledgehammer and nickels sound and one of his legs explodes mid-thigh. He roars, falling down and instinctively putting out a hand to catch himself, eyes filled with surprise. Eyes.

I launch myself up, aiming for his face. A burst of flame nearly ashes my armor to the skin. Nearly. One needle of bone up his nose, one into his eye. Puncture and branch. When resistance is encountered, spread and scrape. Like rubbing a compound fracture against a cheesegrater. I scream. One spike finds an opening, and I follow it. Lung starts jerking. His brain. I form more spikes and start twitching them around, searching for something, anything critical.

He's got to have limits, right?

Claws scrapes my back plate. I stop trying to be fancy and simply shove as much bone as possible into his brain. Something hot and sharp and oh fuck I can feel his claws in my spine and why can't I feel my legs?

Then the claws stop wriggling and the fires stop growing. Someone starts talking and I black out.

Last edited: Dec 28, 2017

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Threadmarks Algor Mortis 1.3

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Oct 28, 2017

#122

Happy not-yet-Halloween everyone. Props to the 9001 beta-readers that make my work palatable (lookin' at you, Lucifer)

Algor Mortis 1.3

When I wake up, it's a jerky, sudden thing, like coffee and an electrocution. Before my mind is fully settled, a large, metal-clad hand settles on my shoulder. "Easy." The gruff voice from the fight. Right. I fought Lung. And won? "I've injected you with some mild stimulants." I finally connect it to the armored figure standing next to my bed. "You may experience heightened emotional states over the course of the next few minutes. As such, the Protectorate cannot use anything you say against you, nor will you be held accountable for what you say. Do you understand?" The visor looks down impassively, while the exposed skin forms a hard line.

Armsmaster. Leader of the local Protectorate. The seventh most powerful hero in the Protectorate, and the second best Tinker in the world. Standing at my bedside.

I jerk a hand up, worried for my mask. Bone clicks against bone, and I sigh in relief. Armsmaster notices and holds up his right hand.

"The Protectorate does not unmask capes unless necessary for medical attention. If that is done, the nurses will sign NDA's. Revealing a cape's identity is illegal in all but the most extreme circumstances, and nothing you have done falls under those categories." With every clause, I feel myself relax a little more until I'm laying back against the cool sheets. I idly shift the bone plates I have on me, searching for missing pieces. Most of them are still there save for my lower back, which is almost completely bare. I feel myself flush a little as I realize the implications. Mask on, they're professionals and they've probably seen better anyway.

"What-" I cough harshly before I finish. God, I'm thirsty. Armsmaster offers a cup of water. I take it and nod thanks, sitting up just enough to be able to drink. After swallowing some down, I swill and spit, trying to clear the vile taste from my mouth. Once I don't taste ash and sweat, I look up at the hero. "What happened? I remember getting clawed in the back, but after that..."

"Assault temporarily crippled Lung. You then stabbed Lung in the eye and put enough solid bone into his brain to kill him," Armsmaster says bluntly. Huh. It wasn't a dream. "We took you out from under his corpse and Isidis came in and fixed your body." I make a mental note to find some way to say thank you, creepy corpse-grafting powers aside. "Which brings us to the crux of the matter: Lung."

Fuck.

I put the cup down and sit up, sliding my legs off the bed and filling out all missing the plates in my armor, once more encased in my power. Armsmaster sighs and moves into my line of sight, blocking the door. "At the time of death, Lung was twenty-six feet tall. The Protectorate doesn't normally engage him when he is that large, partially due to concerns about collateral damage and partially due to lack of firepower." His frown deepens when he says that last bit. A sore point? "You forced us to engage, and while he is now dead, the rest of the ABB will be out for blood."

I stand up, managing to keep from wobbling. Half of that is the new lower back, certainly with more muscle than I had initially (definitely going to be thanking Isidis) and half is gratuitous use of my bone shell to force limbs to move to where they're supposed to go. I turn my head with my shell and look at the clock. Four seventeen. If I sprint, I might be able to get home before Dad notices I'm gone.

"In the interest of ensuring your personal safety and wellbeing, I'd like to extend an invitation to the Wards," Armsmaster finishes, moving to stand in front of me.

"I have to get home," I state, looking Armsmaster in the eye. "I will be more than willing to talk to you at a later date, but currently I have a life." A pathetic one, but it's mine. "One that requires me to be home before dawn. So if you would please step out of my way, that would be greatly appreciated." Some quiet voice in the back of my head is jabbering about autographs and brushing off the seventh best hero in the Protectorate, but I quash it down. The mask is still on, and I need to be home before Dad wakes up.

Armsmaster's frown is still there, but he steps back into the hallway. I nod and move past him. Huh. In heels and lifts, I'm actually taller than he is. He keeps pace beside me as I stalk towards the elevator.

"I would be willing to provide with transport to a location of your choosing," Armsmaster offers, staring straight ahead. "It would not have to be your home. Instead, a nearby neighborhood, from which you would walk."

Does he think I'm an idiot? "I would prefer for my identity to remain a secret," I respond coldly, stopping in front of the elevator and turning to face him. "Please stop digging for information." Take the hint, asshole. Again, the voice in the back of my head is telling me to shut up and listen. Mask on.

Armsmaster's expression changes from stern to surprised. "I was not attempting to divine your identity. I was simply offering a service." He presses the call button to the elevator. "Out of curiosity, how much do you know about the cape community?"

I end up taking the ride while Armsmaster gives me a crash course on cape politics. Identities are sacred, reveal them at your own risk. Endbringers and the Nine are big game, everyone works together against them in good faith. Don't be too aggressive, because then everyone on the other side will team up to try and kill you. Don't maim unnecessarily unless you want to be maimed unnecessarily. Don't kill. I let out a tired little laugh when I hear that last one. It seems absurd, that people with the power to level cities in minutes have a fucking social contract.

At the same time, it makes an odd sort of sense. Anytime you've got a group of people, you have quiet agreements. I don't go after your family, you don't go after mine. You keep things small scale, I won't bring Alexandria down on your head. As long as you only torment the unpopular kids-

In. Out. Mask is still on, and today is a good day. So far.

I get off about ten minutes from home. He gives me his card and offers to make an appointment. I give him my cape name and tell him that I'll call him when I have the time. He appears to takes the statement at face value and drives off into the night.

Once I'm sure that no one is looking, I sprint back home, hopping fences while thinking about what I've done.

Lung's dead. Confirmed by the Protectorate. The ABB are going to need to make a statement to stay near the top of the heap. If they don't, the Empire or some other no-name gang will pounce. The best thing they could do is swift and brutal vengeance on Lung's killer.

I think about the other ABB capes Armsmaster told me about. Oni Lee, a teleporter that left behind clones with a penchant for suicide runs. Bakuda, an explosives Tinker who held Cornell hostage for receiving a bad grade. The synergy isn't hard to see, and it's one that bones don't do shit against.

Being a cape... it's dangerous. The numbers told me that, but getting nearly crippled on my first night out drove it home. I feel a little sick in my mouth as I remember the sudden loss of sensation in my lower body, the sensation of fire on bone. Of finding something that made my vulnerabilities painfully clear. Sure, Lung was maybe the strongest individual cape in the bay. Sure, I was able to go for hours without doing anything. I'm unlikely to ever meet something on that scale again.

That patrol still killed any interest I had in heroing.

I don't want to die, and Lung made it painfully clear that that could happen. I can put up with the Trio, at least for a little while longer. For now I'll stop. Maybe I'll look into Parian again. See if there's another way to relieve stress. If it comes to choosing between school and going out on patrol again though...

I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

My strategizing gets cut off as I come up on home. Funny, I don't think I was running that long. I shrug and come in the back door, using my bones to open the lock. After changing back into my pyjamas, I head back up into my room and lay down on the bed, ready to get an extra hour of sleep before school.

It's not happening. I figure that out after I turn over to look at my alarm clock for the umpteenth time and find that it's still not yet five. I give up and go back to thinking.

The rage has faded. Apparently fighting Lung to the death was enough to get it to quiet down. I probably won't have to worry about slaughtering anyone at school. I let out a breath and think about the upcoming week. Five days of verbal and physical abuse. Forty hours of being on guard, looking for escape routes, getting caught anyway, and leaving with my work destroyed. 2400 non-consecutive minutes of petty teenagers telling me why I'm worthless.

I think about quitting. I'd be free of the abuse, and what is school even teaching me anyway? Computer science is a joke, I have no interest in chemistry, I already know more about biology that the teacher does thanks to the research I did before I went out patrolling, and Current Events hasn't taught me anything that I can't get at the library. I could teach myself, skip all the bullshit, and I wouldn't have to put up with Emma. On paper, it sounds great.

I groan and roll onto my side, closing my eyes and trying to feel even a little bit tired. No matter how much I try to spin it, I can't see a world where dropping out ends up being the right decision. Dad wouldn't take it well. He'd want me to go to a good college, and that's hard to do when your transcript says 'quit school with poor grades and was home schooled.' Plus, Mom would roll over in her grave if she heard I was dropping out. It'd also take a hell of a lot more paperwork for the administration, and they'd like that about as much as they'd like to finally acknowledge that I have a problem.

That, and it'd mean they won. That I wasn't strong enough.

Fuck. That.

I notice some barely-subdermal bones that've pressed up. I push them back down, mournful that I can't use them to take some of the more serious blows from Sophia. I go over all the same arguments. If Sophia pushed me into a corner and the bone met the corner at the right angle, it would tear skin. Then, when the skin healed over in full sight of everyone else, I'd be outed. Simple. Then they'd all go to Blackwell, insist that I'd threatened them somehow, and the Protectorate would be on my ass faster than Velocity. Emma's dad would use his lawyering to get me 'Caged or sent to prison, and that would be that.

No. Better just take my lumps and wait for an opportunity.

When I look back at the clock it reads five fifteen. That's not such a weird time to wake up, right? Even if it's not, I'm still not sleepy enough to go back to bed. I sigh and head down to the kitchen. A quick omelet, with random veggies and bacon. I eat efficiently, barely tasting the food, then go out for a run.

I've been at it long enough that I don't start wheezing after just a few minutes. I haven't been going long enough to not lose breath, though. I ride the high of the pleasant, mild burn in my muscles, and before it becomes sickening weakness I take a break, slowing down to a jog.

Could I use my powers to run faster? Probably. Fuse the joints, then move them in typical running speed. It'd take a bit to get used to, though. That, and it wouldn't address the reason I keep running. Running with my power wouldn't build muscles. It would be taking the easy way out, admitting that I didn't want to do something, not that I couldn't.

I start running again.

By the time I get home Dad's out of the shower and frying bacon. He looks up from the pan and gives me a tired smile. It makes the wrinkles on his face look that much deeper.

"Up and running already?" he asks, absentmindedly pushing some of the bacon around the pan.

I shrug. "Woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep. Figure I'd run."

He nods politely and turns back to the bacon. I deflate a little, but honestly? This about as deep as things go. Neither of us were particularly talkative before Mom died, and afterwards we both just sort of... drew into ourselves. I figured if I didn't talk about it, I'd move on. And I did. Dad probably thought the same way, and threw himself into the Sisyphean task of keeping the Dockworkers' Union afloat.

We're both managing. Barely.

I grab some cereal and sit down at the table, waiting for the bacon. I can shower later. Cold bacon is atrocious, and we don't spend enough time together as is.

Conversation is light and sparse as we eat, but at least it's not awkward. Dad talks a little about the Union, and how it's doing. Never good, but there are variations of stagnant. Fine means 'bad,' acceptable means 'head above water,' and alright means that 'there hasn't been a backslide and we're waiting for the other shoe to drop.' Right now things are alright. I talk a little about some of the books I've read recently. The Count of Monte Cristo, Frankenstein, and the Great Gatsby.

Neither of us mention school. Neither of us mention the extra table setting that always goes unused. It's easier that way.

Eventually, the bacon is gone. We both sit there awkwardly for a moment, him with a cup of cold coffee dregs and me with a bowl a third full of milk. He at the clock and pushes away from the table, throwing back the last of the coffee.

"Well, I'm heading out now. Have a good day, okay?" The tired smile is back, but it looks a little less brittle than it did before we sat down. I smile back.

"I'll try."

Dad leaves and I drop the smile. Time to shower, pack whatever I need for classes, and step back into Taylor's life.

Last edited: Jun 9, 2018

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#183

Ah, you thought it was a new chapter. But it was, in fact, an interlude!

Algor Mortis Interlude

The scent of copper in the debris-filled mall is overwhelming, the screams high and sharp. I shut them out, trying to get through the people running away from the living Nazi chainsaw. Vicky hasn't come out of the boutique yet. I shove aside a distracted-looking woman with cuts along the side of her face and run in, barely hearing the receding sounds of chainsaw limbs. It takes too long to find her among the reds and pinks of the Valentine's Day specials. Too long to realize that somehow Hookwolf got a tangle of blades through her force field, that she's missing important pieces. Too long to get a hand over her mess of a stomach and realize that she's not bleeding as much because there's not much blood left.

No no no no no no nononono

She smiles up at me, shaky and sad. "Hey Ames," she says, too softly. I feel something flutter under my hands. Maybe her lungs. "How's it look?" she asks, dragging in a raspy breath. More blood flows over my hands.

"F-fine," I lie, looking around for options. A first aid kit, a coat, something to apply pressure to the wound. "You're going to turn out alright. It's just a-"

"Ames, tell Mom and Dad I love them, alright?" she interrupts, smiling gently. "I love you too." She leans her head back, blond hair mixing with sticky red, and closes her eyes.

No.

/-/

Something flashes, two beings, incomprehensibly large, mixing and not mixing in equal measures. A shard flies down, growing larger and larger in perspective, until it consumes the horizon.

/-/

I blink, something receding into the back of my mind. When I look at Victoria, I see light fading from her. It's not light, but it's something like that, my brain trying to make sense of new input. I know I can bring Vicky's light back.

There. Things, red and wet and filled with their own dimming light. I grab them, scooping up the slippery bits and pressing them into Victoria's stomach. I tell them to glow again, to work. They do. The light looks different from Vicky's light, so I tell them to match. They do. They try to slide out when I move my hand so I tell them to bind. They do. Vicky's light stops fading, but doesn't get brighter. I need more. I look around, straining my eyes to find some more material.

That's how they find me, pressing the slippery insides of Hookwolf's collaterals into Victoria, trying to help her shine again.

I look down at the man. "He's not glowing anymore. I can't help him."

"Bullshit!" the cape yells, glowing menacingly as he leans over his friend's dead body. "You've brought back people who were missing everything south of their heads before! He bled out, you can just-"

"Flare," a quiet voice says, and he spins around to see Legend, standing just be him with a mournful look on his face. "Isidis will not work on corpses with brain damage. The times she has tried, it went poorly. You know this," he finishes, leaning and hugging the cape. "You both knew that Isidis can't save everyone."

I wish I could stay and console him. I wish I could talk to my patients, use my breath for something besides running between hospital beds while hauling buckets of gore. Instead I turn away from the crying man and grab a handful of fresh, shining flesh and slap the mess onto a gaping chest wound. A bit drips off the side of the stretcher, dripping to the floor in a now-familiar rhythm.

The aftermath of Endbringer fights always has more raw material than I need for the survivors.

"Amy, wake up!"

"Ugh, five more minutes," I grumble, dragging the blanket back over my head. Half-remembered, half-coherent dreams float around my skull, involving odd shines and shards.

"Someone's hurt," the voice says, and I wake up properly. Victoria is holding my late-night costume, a quick, warm pullover robe with elbow-length sleeves, an ankh on the front, and isoprene gloves. Not particularly attractive, but enough for a night-call.

"Details," I demand, dragging the robe over my pj's and trying to rub the sleep out of my eyes. God, I hate late nights.

"Lung fought some new parahuman and got killed, but not before crippling her," Vicky says, walking over to the window and opening it up.

"Lung's dead?" I ask incredulously, voice muffled by the robe.

"That's all Aunt Sarah would tell me," Victoria says, an apologetic note in her voice. Once I'm fully clothed, she carefully picks me up in a bridal carry and floats us out. "I'm going to speed up now, 'kay?" I give her a nod and try to keep my heart rate down.

Flying never ceases to be terrifying. Even with Victoria carting me around, even knowing she's strong enough to pound cars into scrap, having only a pair of arms separating myself from a drop at near-highway speeds is unpleasant.

Soon enough we get Brockton General, where about half the Protectorate is present. Miss Militia nods as we pass by her, while Dauntless gives a little wave, which Victoria returns with a smile. Meanwhile, Armsmaster guides me to the ICU.

"Severed spine, with ruptured kidneys and bowels," he says, looking straight ahead. "A cadaver has been supplied and is resting next to the body. Can you give me any estimates as to time to recover?"

I think back to Abidjan, where I put a man back together from the waist down. "Not more than a few minutes," I answer. "Is she on antibiotics?" It took a while to understand disease well enough to make working with old corpses viable. Longer to make it a good idea.

"My own," he responds, opening a door to reveal a face-up pasty 20-something corpse, already cut open and waiting for me to transform it into someone else's living flesh. Next to her is a woman hooked up to half a dozen medical machines, lying on her stomach with plates of bone covering everything save for her lower back. That's been torn open and bandaged roughly, with a little red seeping through.

Not even the worst thing I've seen this week.

I stride forward, grab a pair of scissors, and snip away the bandages. Once that's done I scoop some flesh from from the corpse and press it into the new parahuman. Match glow. Bind. Help. Another scoop. Match glow. Bind. Help.

By the time I'm done, the corpse's abdominal cavity is gutted (ah, gallows humor) and the new parahuman is patched up. I peel off my gloves and toss them into a biohazard bin, then walk out of the room.

Armsmaster follows close behind. "Status?"

"She'll be fine," I answer, suppressing a yawn. "Get the doctors to flip her on her back and listen to whatever treatment they prescribe. Now if you don't mind, I have to get up to go to school in," I check the clock in the wall, "less than five hours and I'd like to get some sleep in that time."

Armsmaster nods and gives me an awkward pat on the shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Isidis. Your payment will be deposited as an addendum to our monthly bill."

"Keep shelling out and I'll give you all the time you want," I mutter back, walking back to where Vicky and MM are talking. "Patient's patched up, can we go back home now?" I ask Vicky, interrupting their conversation.

"Sure," she says too quickly, walking over towards the door. "Nice talking, see you later!" she blurts out to Miss Militia just before the door closes. She scoops me up into a bridal carry and kicks off, not bothering to warn me this time. I hate it when she does that. She knows that I hate it, and usually is mindful enough to at least give me some warning when no one's in danger. What did MM say to set her off?

Once we're home and I've stopped shivering, I pull out a pair of mugs from the cabinet and sit down at the table. One with a little tiara, one with a caduceus. "Vicky, we should talk."

"About what?" she asks, grabbing the cocoa powder and milk, recognizing the signs.

"Why'd you run from Miss Militia?" I ask. Vicky's aura flares and I wince at the rush of adoration. Must've been something bad, then. "Vicky, aura."

"Right, right," she says, pouring the milk into a saucepan and flicking on the stove. "It's, uh..."

"Did you hurt someone?" I ask quietly. Her aura flares and I twist my leg, using the pain to cut through the fuck off/fuck me feelings. "Miss Militia wanted you to join the Wards to work on not causing as much collateral damage?" It wouldn't be too surprising, given that only Carol's legal expertise has kept Vicky from being forced into the Wards. That, and some free medical care for the victims from me. Vicky's aura flares again, and I feel blood rush to my face.

As disturbing as it is to suddenly want to have sex with your sister, it's nice that she can't lie about anything of substance.

I sigh and stand up. Vicky's still staring at the saucepan, occasionally tilting it to mix the milk, hiding behind her tangled blonde locks. No matter what bullshit powers Vicky has looking after her body, even she can't fix bed-head automatically. I give her a gentle hug from behind.

"Messing up doesn't make you a bad person, Vicky," I say softly in her ear, resting my chin on her shoulder. "It means you need practice."

I hear creaking as she squeezes the handle of the saucepan. "But when I go out to practice, I put a pickpocket in the hospital!" she says, her voice tinged with hysteria and depression. Her aura is at full blast, sending waves of desire and fear through me, both contributing to my shaky knees and flushing face. I flex my shoulders forward, against the muscle, embracing the pain and focus on that. "How am I supposed to get better at not hurting people when every time I try someone gets hurt!? How is that learning?" She's not quite screaming, but it's close.

"Do you think the milk is done?" I ask, turning her attention back to the pan. Vicky takes a deep breath and I feel her stomach expand against my hands. When she exhales, her aura dies down to almost nothing and she turns off the stove.

We both stand there, lapsing into silence.

"Thanks," she says eventually, "For listening to me bitch and moan."

"Thanks for heating the milk," I respond evenly. "Let's drink it before it gets cold."

We sit down and mix our drinks, me with my paltry one scoop of cocoa powder and a pinch of powdered pepper and Victoria with her two scoops and chocolate sauce. Such a sweet tooth.

Carol comes down the stairs with a bleary look in her eyes, unfocused until she sees us sitting there, drinking cocoa. "Who got hurt?" she asks, sitting down at the table next to Vicky, "And did they pay you?"

Vicky looks at her with a surprised expression, as if deducing that me in costume late at night could come from any other situation. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Vicky, I love you to death, but goddamn you're dense sometimes.

"New parahuman got into a fight with Lung," I say, taking a sip of my drink. "And yes, Armsmaster added it to their monthly fee."

Carol winces. "How bad was it?"

"Severed spin and some internal organs," I answer. "But Lung's worse off."

Carol blinks, then turns to Vicky for confirmation. Vicky nods. Carol looks back to me, then leans back in her chair, gazing at the ceiling.

"Well, that will change things," she says quietly. I nod. When Carol learned that my power involved dead people, it took her about five seconds to contact a parahuman law specialist and figure out the legal hoops I'd have to jump through to get consistent access to corpses, as well as the names of three or four excellent therapists. Analyzing situations comes naturally to her, and I can only imagine what's going though her mind.

I finish off my drink and yawn. "Well, I'm going back to bed. 'Night," I manage to get out behind another yawn.

"'Night," Vicky and Carol call behind me, leaning towards one another and beginning to talk shop in hushed voices. They don't bother to try and convince me to join. For the best, honestly, I'd bite the next person who gets between me and a bed.

I stagger up the steps, through the door, and over to my bed. I barely manage to strip out of my costume before collapsing onto the sheets and letting the black fall over my consciousness.

Last edited: Nov 4, 2017

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Nov 4, 2017

#191

Ah, you thought it was just an interlude, but it was, in fact, a double update!

(Basically, I was planning on doing this as a longer interlude, but my betas [shout out!] pointed out that readers need info on Amy more than they needed to see Armsmaster and Dragon talking. Without further ado...)

TALES FROM THE DRAWING BOARD

"The new parahuman is odd."

Dragon snorts, gentle laugh lines framed in high definition on the spare monitor floating around, taking another sip of coffee. "Pots and kettles, Colin. Remind me, how is your excuse generator coming along?"

"Currently passing the Turing test ninety-five percent of the time," I respond, modeling the projection ports for the Mark XII on a separate screen. "The code you passed along helped quite a bit, actually." Deployment speed versus duration. An easy trade in theory, but the faster it deployed, the quicker a fight would end, rendering increased duration wasted.

Only theory is ever easy. Something the Toybox never understands.

"You're welcome, by the way," Dragon comments dryly. "Actually though, how is she?" Dragon asks, placing her coffee down. I push away from the computer and lean back, letting the perfectly ergonomic chair take the stress from my back.

"She's untrained. Remarkably aware of how her power works, but next to no combat experience," I say, reciting the statement I gave to the Director. Capable of turning a Changer power into both Brute and Mover ratings. Impressive for a fresh trigger. "Brief conversation implies a strong belief in the separation of personal, professional, and parahuman life. Remarkable self control, implied that this was her first day out despite having her powers for some time." If only all fresh triggers were as prudent. A certain nearly-homicidal Ward comes to mind. "She seemed reluctant to join the Protectorate, though I am unsure the reason. I verified it wasn't related to money or personal security with my lie detector." I run a hand over my beard and think about giving it a touch up. "Do you have any advice?" It burns a little to ask, but keeping a parahuman from joining a villain group is more important. The Merchants are only manageable thanks to the lack of front-liners, and the ABB because they had so few net capes. Fewer now. And the E88...

God forbid they gain yet another weapon in their arsenal.

"What do you think?" Dragon asks, idly adding some creamer to her drink.

I frown. Answering a question with a question is poor form. I don't have enough data for a proper analysis either.

"I think it must be something related to the organization itself or her trigger," I say slowly. "It could be that her trigger paints the Protectorate in a negative light, such as a relative dying when a Protectorate hero was nearby." Rare, but not unheard of. "Alternatively, she may simply not enjoy taking orders." Not nearly as rare. "I don't want to speculate further, but those are what jump out at me."

"Your analysis seems reasonable," Dragon says, smiling gently. "I was thinking that maybe a woman who nearly died wouldn't want to commit to anything too fast until she got off Tinkertech drugs."

"A fair and reasonable point," I respond, internally chiding myself for not thinking of that. "Do you think I accidentally alienated her?"

Dragon laughs. "No, no I don't think so." She adopts a more serious expression. "I heard she killed Lung..."

I bring up the autopsy and highlight the cause of death. "She filled his cranial cavity with bone, overwhelming his regeneration." An ideal use of her power in terms of raw lethality. Perhaps adaptable. If I take a long, flexible needle, get a containment foam compound and restructure it for expansion and firmness-

"That poor woman," Dragon says, eyes falling. "Having to kill someone."

"Lung was a pimp and a two bit gangster," I state bluntly. "The world will not miss him."

"But she will think about it," Dragon responds, running her finger around the rim of her cup. "She'll return to the moment, wonder if there was anything else she could've done. If it was reasonable to escalate to murder. It's not that I'm mourning Lung," she clarifies. "I'm worried about how a girl's first cape fight turned her into a killer."

I think about it. How I would've reacted to the stress. I think I'd take it in stride, but I take a look at Dragon and see her worry. I think about it some more. About how a younger version of me might respond.

The results would not be optimal.

Dragon takes another sip of her drink and waves her other hand. "Anyway, we can only recommend a therapist. Speaking of other options, did you ever get a chance to test those tranquilizers on him?"

I sti back up in my chair. "He vaporized them before they could get into open wounds. Even if they had, I doubt they would've done anything. I never designed them to deal with him past a certain point."

"A shame," Dragon says. "So what're you working on now that Lung's out of the picture?"

I shrug. "Some EMP's or something to deal with the ABB's new Tinker would not go amiss. If there's time, I'd also like to work more on the anti-Endbringer tech. Here's what I've got so far." I bring up the base schematics. Nanothorns, the brainchild of a pair of physicists and a South African Tinker. Completely impractical, of course. They required a power source the size of a small car, had a minimum size of several dozen cubic yards, and were completely immobile. Useful as a particularly dangerous and expensive fence perhaps, but otherwise worthless.

The engineering behind the device was sound, though. The main thing holding back the mobility was the power source and mounting. A little more refinement and it might be something special.

"Where'd you find this, Colin?" Dragon asks, scanning the document and my preliminary modifications and nodding along. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it's interesting. But since when have you had the time to review Sci-Fi IRL Monthly?

"I receive a subscription to any and all magazines that have Tinker material published in them as a part of my contract," I explain, fiddling with a schematic for the cooling system of the thorns themselves. "I play them during my rest periods, and save any article that sounds interesting." Maybe the excess heat can be used recycled into a slush energy supply.

"Colin, are you trying to subliminally message yourself into being a better Tinker?" Dragon asks. I look up at the monitor. She has an odd expression on.

"Is it so wrong?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

She laughs, shaking her head. "It's just weird. Anyway, I think I've found a way to increase the durability of the mechanisms without dramatically increasing their weight."

We Tinker for a few hours. It's not enough, but it's something.

Once Dragon bids her farewells, I pull up a blank schematic and some other articles. Coil is a supervillain, either a Thinker or Tinker with a small army of international mercenaries. On the other hand, there's another Tinker in Australia with a specialty in electrical discharge and routing that has the same name. I pull up some schematics of hers, and start sketching out designs for a taser that can channel a current through bone.

Just in case.

EDIT: changed some words so there's less repetition.

Last edited: Aug 22, 2018

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Nov 11, 2017

#237

WARD (PARAHUMANS 2) IS UP EVERYONE! *INCOHERENT SCREAMING*

Oh, and a new chapter of this. Midnight update in honor of Ward.

Rigor Mortis 2.1

"Oh Taylor, how great to see you! Tell me, did you go shopping? Because you've got some nice bags under those eyes!"

In. Out. Breathe. Mask on.

The other girls in the hall titter as I walk past Emma into Computer Science. Mrs. Knott glances at me as I walk in, then to the door. The bullies stick around, hurling backhanded compliments for a few more minutes until Mrs. Knott clears her throat and looks pointedly at the clock. They leave giggling, and Mrs. Knott takes role. I dutifully announce my presence when requested and turn in the calculator she had us make from Basic. Absurdly simple, but half the class has trouble with search browsers and email. Mrs. Knott knows she can't teach me anything without leaving everyone else behind, so after the first ten minutes she lets me do whatever. A small consolation for her lack of interference with the bullies, but it's something.

I log onto PHO, the hive of tinhats, cape fetishists and academics that is the closest thing civilians have to a cape database. I go to the homepage and start scrolling though. A new warlord gets eaten by Mord Naag, Eidolon shutting down a tsunami, Gesellschaft ties found to a prominent politician, ho hum. Another day on Earth Bet. I click over to the Brockton Bay section.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Topic: Lung Killed by New Cape!

In: Boards Board News Events America

Bagrat (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)

Posted On Apr 12th 2011:

Late last night, a cape fight went down in Brockton Bay. Yeah, and water is wet. What's your point? Well, if you read the title of the thread, you know why.

The dragon's been slain. Not by a Nazi or a Protectorate hero (or even by a druggie), but by a new cape. Lung, that one guy that once fought off the *entire* local Protectorate on his own [link, got iced by a complete rookie.

To make sure the conversation stays focused on the event and not the new cape, I'm linking her new thread [here]. Speculate there.

Anyway, let's talk about it!

EDIT: [Link] to the Protectorate statement. Long story short, they're investigating and examining the law to see if the killing was justified, and encourage White Rose to join the Wards so she doesn't end up in the situation again.

(Showing page 1 of 12)

XxVoid_CowboyxX

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

Hell yeah! Fuck Lung, guy was pox on the city!

PSA: Do not antagonize Dragons. Or the servants of Dragons. That is all. -Tin Mother

Haven't_Had_Enough_"Apple_Juice"_Yet

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

Ah, what better way to start the conversation than Cowboy getting slapped down.

In all seriousness, wow. I did NOT expect to wake up to this. When it's five o'clock in Brockton Bay, I'm going to celebrate this with something nice.

V0L1T1L3

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

Post Removed

User received a 2-week ban for this post: Do not make death threats. Enjoy your ban. -Tin_Mother

2nd_Tier_Laughtrack (Not Funny)

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

Well, without the rage-man dragon the Protectorate down, do you think they'll use this opportunity to push back the E88 or ignore it like the other nein? Or will they weed out the Merchants?

R8me8/8

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

Well, I'm glad to know the streets are safer at night. I wonder how the new cape looks under the armor, and who she's going to join?

AlephLooksNice (Wannabe Dimension Hopper)

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

Probably the Protectorate, @ R8me8/8, given that she fought a villain on her first night out. I mean, SURE she could be a new cape for one of the other gangs, but I can't imagine Kaiser or Skidmark holding in news like that and also allowing them to go out on patrol.

Bottl

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

I mean, its a rael question. Like, the Merchents could totally hok her up.

OneGoddamnMonocle (Tries To Hard) (Not Quite a Hipster)

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

As this grammatically challenged fellow denotes, killers rarely make good heroes. The natural counterpoint is Shadow Stalker, our own little redemption story, but she is hardly a social butterfly.

If the cape in question would want to defend herself, this poster would welcome a formal statement on their stance.

CharlotteHolmes

Replied On Apr 12th 2011:

I'd actually like to offer this new cape some employment. PM for details

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 10, 11, 12

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I look at the message from CharlotteHolmes and lean back in my chair. Who hears that a new murderous cape is in town and offers them employment? Two answers spring to mind, neither good. One, the person is stupid. Occam's razor and all that. The same impulse that sends Brocktonites to the streets with their phones out when two capes start whacking away at each other probably also inspires people to approach murderous parahumans.

The other reason is that the person wants a murderer in their employ. In which case I don't want to work for them. I'm not looking to add 'semi-professional hit woman' to my resume. Still, I allow myself a moment to entertain the possibility.

On the one hand, employment. Presumably with a decent paycheck. Parahumans rarely make less than six figures. Hell, the Wards get minimum wage plus a 50k a year trust fund. I figure that number only goes up on the villain side.

On the other hand, villain. I grind two of my toe bones together and use the pain to refocus. No working for villains. No doing villainous things. Don't let them break you.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the one halfway acceptable class of the day. On the way out, I see Mrs. Knott looking at me with something close to pity. I deliberately break eye contact. She lost the right to feel sorry when she walked past my sobbing form in the hallway after Emma burned me out of her family photos.

Next class starts off with a bottle of orange juice poured over my usual seat. Madison, most likely. Childish and inconvenient, but ultimately worthless. Sophia's the same, honestly. Turns out a Brute rating is wonderful for pain tolerance. I grab another seat near the door and wait for class to start. One guy walks in and stands near me, looking down awkwardly. Guess I took his chair. I look him in the eye. He looks away after a few seconds, flush rising to his cheeks. He's one of the ones who dislikes my situation, but is too much of coward to do anything about it. So he lets me win when he can, giving up his seat to the poor little social outcast.

Victim perks.

Gladly groups us into fours, putting me with Greg (a dumb nerd), Sparky (a drummer) and one of Madison's flunkies (a bitch). Greg starts to go on about some game, Sparky puts his head down, and the flunkie promptly starts chatting with another group of girls. See, half of my academic failure is constant sabotage and emotional distress. The other half is working with people who wouldn't learn if I held a blade to their throat and whispered in their ear to listen to me or--

I idly snap my toe bone to refocus. I guess that killing Lung didn't get rid of all the rage. On the other hand, only one murderous thought before lunch time. Progress!

Fifteen minutes later, Gladly looks around for groups who are ready to present. I make the mistake of looking into his eyes, and he takes it as a sign of interest. Fuck. While walking through the aisles and stepping over an outstretched foot, I idly wonder about how he got a job as a teacher when he was so completely incapable of reading a room.

Once I'm up front, I start bullshiting.

"The thing everyone really focuses on when they think about capes is the entertainment industry. People like Bad Canary, Limelight, and Glamshow who baseline humans can't compete with. Slightly less noticeable are the advances in technology, which came shortly after scientists started trying to reverse-engineer Tinker tech." Mr. Gladly is paying rapt attention, and he's the only one. Madison's group is chatting away idly in the back while the other students are paying just enough attention not to get called out. "They couldn't replicate anything, but the scraps that they could pull out were enough to advance civilian technology almost a decade ahead of previous schedules. Even less noticeable is the effect parahumans have had on the economy." Fucking NEPEA-5 bill. When you look at how Brutes aren't allowed to work in construction, Movers can't provide civilian transportation, and Shakers are banned from landscaping, you really start to feel for The Elite. Until you look up Bastard Son, at least. "This is partly due to legislation attempting to keep the market fair, and partially due to most people's lack of interest."

"Crime is at an all-time high as well," I add casually, "Given that heroes are outnumbered at least two to one in most areas." A few people shift in their seats at the mention of outnumbered heroes. Probably thinking about how E88 has more capes than the Protectorate and Wards combined. "Honestly though? The biggest change is that people are more afraid now. You've got a bunch of random people running around in civilian clothing with the ability to tear down city blocks on a whim." A few people flinch a little at that. It's amazing what you can get used to when you don't think about it too much. "On a related note, gun ownership is also at an all-time high. Most of these purchases are motivated by a desire for self defense," I add. No idea if it's true, but it seems reasonable. I walk back to my desk, ducking out of the way of a spitball and stoically take some pencil shavings to the face. Daring to be a reasonable speaker in class is going to come back to bite me in the ass.

Fuck 'em.

The rest of the groups shamelessly add pieces of my presentation to theirs, but Gladly waves it away as 'being inspired by a classmate'. Some random group ends up winning an inane prize of some sort, and I sleep through the rest of class.

When I hear the bell, I jolt awake, disturbing the plastic bottle on top of my head. Fortunately, it falls forward, spilling soda all over my borrowed desk and drawing giggles from a group of girls. Oh, wow, practical jokes! They're so funny, with no cost to us whatsoever! The height of comedy and sophistication!

On my way out Gladly makes eye contact. "Taylor, can I talk with you for a moment?"

I walk next to him. "Moment's passing fast," I comment idly. Gladly registers as only slightly more important than, say, a mangy dog, but it's school. Students listen to teachers. Except when they don't.

"I'm not an idiot, Taylor." I bark out a laugh, but he keeps talking. Like by taking my criticism he gets to be a bigger man. "I know you're getting bullied. You probably know by who. But I can't help you without names. Tell me, and I'll do my best." He thinks it so simple, it makes me want to shove splinters into him until they're the only thing keeping him together and the floor is painted red with his blood and--

I cut off the thought and look Gladly in the eye. Turns out that makes people uncomfortable. Which is exactly what I'm going for.

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" I ask him, blunt as possible. He opens his mouth to respond and I give it exactly as much respect as he gives me. "I've talked to administration. I've done it with a teacher backing me up. I've done it in torn up clothes and covered in cat pee. They systematically refuse to punish the people I name, based on 'a lack of evidence'. My aggressors are popular and make the school look good, so they get away with it." I lean over the desk, invading his personal space. He backs up, his chair creaking as he tries to make more space between us. "Every time I tried, I have suffered 'revenge' that was far worse than the punishment the bullies got. There is no path you can think of that I have not considered. No idea that you can come up with that works better than taking my lumps and hoping the bullies get run over by a karmically-guided semi truck." Gladly looks like he wants to interject, like he wants to talk about how physical violence isn't proportional to talk. I stand up straight again. "Tell me Gladly, who actually laughs at your stupid jokes? Who likes having group work? It's always the same damn people, and it's always the people who laugh the hardest whenever tacks or glue are on my seat. Rub your two brain cells together and figure it out."

I leave him like that, stepping out the room and into a semicircle of girls, who quickly pull me to the side, away from the doorway and prying eyes.

"What a fucking nerd. Maybe she's hoping to make some money in the future so she can pay a Merchant to fuck her."

"Nah, she's too stupid to get a job and too ugly to get fucked. She's probably just looking for the best way to kill herself."

"Betcha she'd spread her legs for Gladly if he promised to help her grades."

"Nah, he wouldn't fuck a frog on two legs. Maybe she could ask Squealer for tips on sucking diseased Merchant cock."

"I wonder how her father feels when she grumbles about not having friends as he fucks her?"

Abuse, vile, verbal and unrelenting. Everyone knows how it goes. I stand here, taking it, expressionless. Eventually, someone breaks through, usually Emma. I shed a tear, they all laugh, talk about how I can't take a joke, and then they leave me in the hallway so I can go snap off some roses.

The insults are barely coherent. One minute I'm stupid enough to eat dog shit because it looks like chocolate. The next I'm a pretentious bitch that will never make it in the real world no matter how well I play the school game. I'm going to die a virgin, but I'll take it up the ass for a fucking lollipop. I'm an attention whore, I'm an antisocial serial killer. It's a rambling, self contradictory mess designed to hurt.

In. Out. Mask on. Take it, condense it, and pack it away with the rest of the rage. Maybe Hookwolf wants to go a round or seven this weekend.

"Hey Taylor, you look like you're holding up pretty well here. You probably won't cry for a week from just this, right? Like you did when your mom died?" Emma leans forward a little, trying to ape the intimacy we had not even two years ago.

Blinding rage. It takes every ounce of reason I have not to explode into a whirlwind of blades and cudgels to turn their insides out, warp bones beyond recognition, and leave them flayed on the ground. Turn their bodies into ornaments, left on the side of the road as a warning not to EVER fuck with--

Mask Taylor. Mask. In. Out. I barely feel the tears flowing down my cheeks. The girls have their laugh and head off to class, leaving me alone with my fury in the hallway.

Options. I can head to class. This will probably be the worst thing that happens today. I managed not to kill them, so chances are the rest of the day will be hassle free. I could also go Carrie on the school, run away to Canada, and then murder Heartbreaker to get enough cash to pay people to leave me alone.

Or I could leave and do something as White Rose.

By the time I consciously decide to place my education on hold, I'm already halfway to the doors.

Last edited: Nov 11, 2017

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Nov 18, 2017

#298

More midnight updates! Becuase instead of getting a good sleep schedule, I read translated latin and try to make sense of it.

Stay in psych, y'all.

Rigor Mortis 2.2

I run home, ditch my school supplies, and start looking for clothes I actually like. After scouring my wardrobe and finding nothing but grey sweatshirts, dark tees, and sweatpants, I give up and pull on a baggy sweatshirt over a quick-remove bra and sweats over a pair of briefs. I then pack my bag with paper, pencils, and some money before striding out the door, hopping on a bus, and heading downtown. I get off a few blocks away from my destination and strip in an alleyway. After making sure the bag is hidden, I armor up and walk to Longshire Park.

It's a deceptively large patch of green nestled among skyscrapers and office buildings with a pair of well-cared for swing sets, free of graffiti. Wide tracts of grass and dandelions surround the play equipment which typically have enough frisbees flying around to mess with radio signals.

But what really makes it something special is the view of the bay it has. Through some accident of zoning, no building nearby is allowed to be taller than twenty feet. Conveniently, the park has a hill significantly higher than twenty feet with a flat top. Prime wedding location, if you don't mind the occasional shot ruined by a cape in the background.

I walk into the park, ignoring the gawkers and the cape nuts trying to catch sight of a Protectorate hero departing from the Rig. I aim for the pretty side of the hill, angling my body to indicate a lack of interest in talk, and, wonder of wonders, the masses take the hint and leave the new cape alone.

I sit down near the top, able to fall onto my back or lean forward onto my knees at will. A few other people, some couples, some parents with toddlers, eye me with something like suspicion. I nod back and that seems to be enough to get them to calm down.

I look out over the sea and just try to process for a minute. Emma. I can't get over how little empathy she has. How do you systematically torment your former best friend for more than a year and still find new ways to hurt them? And how does none of this blowback on her? Mom helped her scraped knees too. Doesn't that count for anything? Does she just not care? Maybe I register as so little to her now she doesn't think it's wrong. Then why keep at it? Why bother to make my life in particular hell? Surely there's someone with lower self esteem who will go and off themselves after enough punishment.

I roll the problem over and over in my head, projecting and picking roses, using the pain as a reminder to keep on topic. I drift from motivations, to causes, to potential horrors, to old horrors, lost in misery. Before long I have an even dozen roses. I select one and begin playing with it, seeing how far it can flex before it breaks.

"Neat trick."

I turn towards the voice, noting that the hill is empty now. Some ripped shirtless guy with Nazi tattoos on either shoulder, greasy blond hair, and a metal wolf mask oh shit it's Hookwolf!

I jump to my feet, aiding myself with my shell, trying to recall the nearby streets. I'm pretty sure I'm faster than him, and if I can break line of sight maybe I can-

"Easy there Rosie," he says, smirking.

Rosie? The cutsie name shocks me out of my panic. Okay. Hookwolf is standing in front of me, and he hasn't tried to kill me yet. I take a moment to close my eyes. In. Out. Mask up. When I open them again, I stare at the Nazi, holding the bouquet of the roses defensively across my body.

"What do you want?" I ask, putting only a little contempt in my voice.

"You in the Empire," he says simply, still smiling. "Also to say thanks for killing the gook. Motherfucker was a bitch and a half to fight."

"Not interested," I respond, mind racing, trying to think of ways to hurt a writhing mass of metal. Pull him apart? Bone is weaker than metal, so I couldn't do it without making a lot of bone. Pin him down? He could flow through the cracks and flay me. What about putting a bone inside of him and expanding it? Maybe, but he could just eject it and-

"Okay," he says, shrugging.

Just like that?

"What?" I ask, a note of incredulity creeping past the mask. Did Hookwolf just take 'no' for an answer?

"Yeah," he says, looking me in the eye. "If you don't want to join, forcing you's asking for a knife in the back. Better to let you figure out who you can trust on your own. You'll come around to the right thinking eventually," he says, showing some teeth in his smile, "And we'll be waiting with open arms."

"What if I'm black?" I ask, still a little off balance from the surprisingly polite Nazi.

"The fact you had to ask means you're not," he says, turning around. "When you're ready to join, walk into an Empire bar in costume, don't start shit, and ask politely. One of us'll show up." He walks down the hill, passes through the tree line, and disappears from sight.

Well then.

I drop the mask and go back to looking at the river, worldview partially shattered. I just had a civilized talk with a literal Nazi about joining their team of villains, and it went better than my attempts to ask the principal of a school to look out for bullies.

I grow another rose and snap it off. Nazi is the operative term here. Hookwolf is a racist murderer. Don't put on rose colored lenses because he asked nicely. They want my power, plain and simple. If I wasn't white, then they'd want me dead. I repeat the mantra, snapping off a rose at the end of every repetition until I internalize it.

I will not let criminals convince me they are just.

It takes almost an hour for people to return to the park. Two of them come up the hill, both in skin-tight bodysuits. One's a woman in grey and blue, the other a man in red. Assault and Battery. Assault gives me a once over and grins.

"So who left you waiting at the altar?" he asks. Battery sighs and smacks the back of his head.

"Hookwolf," I respond. Assault manages to express both shock and awe with half his face covered, while Battery simply raises an eyebrow. "He wanted me to be a Nazi. I said no," I say, answering the unspoken question.

"Good partners don't ask their partners to change their core beliefs," Assault says sagely. "Plus, his hair looks nasty as hell."

Battery sighs. "May we talk with you?" she asks, gesturing towards some empty space next to me. "We want to clear some things up about last night."

Last night. Right. Lung. Mask on.

"I'd be more than happy to answer your questions," I respond evenly. Battery has bursts of super speed and durability, while Assault absorbs and redirects kinetic energy. If I want out, all I need to do is cover him in bone and run. I could probably win a foot race with Battery, and if she takes the time to free Assault I'll be long gone. Nothing to be lost by talking.

Battery sits down to my left, with Assault laying back against the grass beside her. She takes out a small device and presses a button. A red light blinks on and she begins talking.

"This is Battery, interviewing the parahuman known as 'White Rose' about the events of the night of April 11th in Brockton Bay. White Rose, do you have anything to clarify?" It takes a moment for me to realize she's pointing the recorder at me.

"Uh, no," I respond lamely. Was there something I was supposed to say?

Battery nods and goes back to talking. "The Protectorate responded to an emergency call reporting a cape fight between Lung and an unknown in an abandoned area. When we arrived on scene, Lung was still fighting 'White Rose' and had progressed to the point where forcing him to retreat was infeasible." At what point is forcing Lung to retreat feasible? "As a result, we decided to run interference so that that White Rose could flee. We were unsuccessful, and Lung caught up to the new cape." I shudder a little when I remember Lung looming over me. "At that point, Assault destroyed Lung's left leg above the knee, then White Rose stabbed Lung through the eye and filled his cranial cavity with bone, killing him. Do these events sound accurate?" she asks, turning to me expectantly.

I open mouth, then hesitate. Does this count as an admission of guilt? I have no idea if this counted as self defense. I did go out looking for a fight. Maybe that makes me at fault? Assault leans over Battery's shoulder and offers an encouraging smile.

"Relax, we're not going to try and arrest you. We just want to clear things up," he says, speaking lightly and cheerfully. "Once we have all the facts, we'll have a team of lawyers look them over and figure out if what you did was justified. If they think something needs addressing-" meaning that I have murder charge "-you'll have a day in court. If not, we let it go and inform you. All said and done, it looks a lot better if you help the process along," he finishes, retreating back to the grass.

Battery coughs politely. "Do the events, as I have presented them, seem accurate?"

If I say yes, I'm giving them a handle on me. A crime they could suddenly bring up whenever they felt necessary. Armsmaster probably has video footage already, but personal testimony isn't something to be given out lightly. If it went to trial, I could probably cast doubt on whatever he has by pointing out that he's a master Tinker and could fiddle with the footage. I can't do the same with some shitty low-tech voice recorder. I spend some time thinking about how to proceed in order to leave myself the least open to future reprisals, examining the issue from every angle. Battery eventually pauses the voice recorder, but doesn't put it away. Halfway through my thoughts something twinges and I look down. I grew a new rose.

I think about how a criminal would act in this situation. The rose makes a little more sense.

In. Out. Mask.

I nod and Battery turns on the voice recorder again. "This is Battery, resuming the interview of White Rose. Do the events previously stated seem accurate to you?"

"Yes," I respond quietly. Battery clicks off the recording device and stands up, arching her back with a series of pops. Assault rolls up to his feet and flashes me a smile.

"Well, looks like it's about time for us to head out! Also, do you have a phone or something?" he adds, casting a sideways glance at me. "You know, just in case we need to contact you."

In case they need to ask me to turn myself in. I shake my head. "I've had a bad experience with phones."

Assault shrugs. "Well, we'll probably have this figured out inside of a week. Just to be safe, see if you can be free the Saturday after next. We can meet you here to discuss things. That, or we'll drop off the news when we next see you. Anyway, ciao!" he says, walking off down the hill.

Battery watches him go, before turning to me and extending her hand. I look at it. A small white card, with a number and the Protectorate logo. I take the card.

"Call if you need help," she says simply, adding a soft smile. "Or if you want to join the Wards." She walks off after Assault, and they too disappear through the trees.

I make a chair out of bone and sit down, basking in freedom and the midday sun. That didn't go nearly as poorly as it could've. I'm still waiting to see whether or not I'm going to be charged for murder, but it could be worse. They could've had Miss Militia tranq me from a hundred meters away, or used an aerosol, or simply broken open my armor and tased me into unconsciousness. That I'm still free means they're trusting me not to flip out and do something silly. I think about school, and my odds of keeping it together. Nah, best not risk it. It feels nasty, using my power as an excuse not to go to school, but I can't afford to screw up my hero career before it even starts.

But what to do for the rest of the week?

"How much?"

"Hmm?" I say, turning my head to face the noise. An older guy, with a nice shirt and slacks, tapping his foot. Fancy watch, glasses with a little silver horse on them, and an irritated expression.

"For the flowers," he clarifies, pointing to the bouquet in my hands. I look down at them. Yeah, I have a lot now. I guess I could sell them for bus fare or something.

"Two fifty," I say, idly growing a thin cone around the stems to keep the flowers from falling out. He hands me a trio of bills, grabs the makeshift vase, and walks off down the hill. Rude. At least he overpaid. I take a look at the two hundred-dollar bills and the fifty and-

Wait what.

I hold the bills up to the light, trying to make sure that this isn't an illusion. Nope. I have two hundred and fifty dollars in cash. They don't look fake, but I haven't seen hundred dollar bills in real life before. I feel a little giddy just thinking about it.

Then I realize I'm waving around a bunch of money in a public place and feel a little silly. I quickly make a pocket in my armor, place the bills inside, and seal it tight. Revenue stream acquired. I probably won't be able to sell flowers for two hundred and fifty dollars often, but even just ten bucks per bouquet would be nice. Heroing doesn't pay the bills, after all.

I lean back down in my chair, staring up at the sky thoughtfully. Now I just need a good name. White Rose Florists? Pretty generic. Plus, I don't want people to think I can only make one type of flower. Regrowth Botany? More academic than strictly necessary. Maybe cut the bone theme entirely. Go for something classy. Hmm, where do bones and roses appear together? Graveyards? How about Mourning Florists? A little morbid, but there have been worse ideas.

"How are you doing?"

Goddamn it if one more fucking person interrupts my thoughts today it will count as suicide by cape! I slowly turn to face the voice, keeping my movement as smooth as possible.

The voice belongs to a blond girl with freckles and green eyes, dressed in a pretty purple sundress. Probably not a cape. She looks a little pale, though. I close my eyes. Breathe. In. Out. Mask on. I open up my eyes and smile behind my mask. "I'm doing fine. How are you?" Courtesy for courtesy, now tell me what you want.

The girl grins in that reflexive way Emma would when she got nervous. "I'm doing pretty alright. Can we talk for a bit? My name's Lisa."

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T0PH4T

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Nov 25, 2017

#370

How will Taylor respond to Lisa? How will Lisa respond to Taylor? Find out this time on TOTAL! BONEING! ACTION!

...that did not sound nearly as good as it did in my head...

Rigor Mortis 2.3

"Depends on what time it is," I say. Why is this girl approaching an unknown parahuman and where is her basic survival instinct? I swear to God, lemmings have nothing on Brocktonites.

"It's about," she pulls out a phone and glances at the screen, "Twelve twenty. Actually, I haven't had lunch yet. Do you want to get something to eat?" she asks, cocking her head to the side. Forward, aren't we? She must see something in my posture because she laughs and shakes her head. "No, I'm not looking to hit on the new cape. I just want to chat." Well, free food. I then remember the cash burning a hole in my armor. Alternatively, I could spend the cash and prove that White Rose has both money to spare and a generous heart.

"Well, I could do with a meal. Any particular destination in mind?" I ask, standing up and absorbing the chair back into my armor. As long as it's not crazy expensive, I think I can foot the bill.

"How about Italian?" she asks. "It's a bit of a walk, but I know a nice little place called Luciano's." Before I can answer she's already walking down the hill towards the entrance of the park. I shake my head and follow after her. If she's some crazy cape geek, I can just leave. If not, maybe this can help me cement a more heroic image. Plus, a casual conversation with a non-parahuman wouldn't go amiss.

I draw stares from other pedestrians but a pointed look at the people holding cameras keeps the rubbernecking to a minimum. I don't doubt that PHO is going to be crawling with photos of me by the end of the day but hopefully I won't come across as a publicity hound.

Lisa has good taste. Two stories with a small nameplate hanging from the overhead balcony that I have to weave my head around. Credit where credit is due, the host doesn't bat an eye at the pretty blond girl in a sundress walking in with a cape escort and asking for a table. We get a seat in the open air dining space on the second floor with a nice view of a line forming at the front door as cape geeks and reporters desperately try to look like they're not following us. Lisa looks over the edge and laughs.

"Fun fact, she," Lisa points to an irritated looking older woman about halfway down the line, "is here solely for the food."

I keep my focus on the menu while trying to process that. "Could you shed a little light on why these people think approaching a new cape is a good idea?" I ask. The rosticciana sounds nice but the price tag is a little concerning for a pork dish.

"Well, your first act was taking down Lung, so most people think that puts you on the side of the angels," she says bluntly, eyeing her own menu. "That, and you're walking around in broad daylight without the Protectorate coming down on you like a sack of bricks, which more or less confirms it." Well when you put it like that it does make approaching a new cape seem less dangerous. I narrow my eyes behind my mask and look at her. Hmm, low sense of self-preservation, wants to meet the new cape, and a go-getter. Who does that fit?

"You're CharolleteHolmes, aren't you?" I ask. She smiles back.

"In the flesh," she answers and I nod. Well, at least she's not some crazy master mind. Just a fangirl. I guess it's flattering?

"Have you decided what you want?" she asks, changing the subject. "My treat, so order what you want."

"We split the check," I respond. "I think I'll have the penne all'arrabbiata," I say, picking a weekly special that's priced reasonably. No idea what it is but it's the second cheapest thing. Lisa lifts an eyebrow at that but doesn't say anything, instead waving towards a waiter. He listens to Lisa but both of his eyes are focused on me. Rude. I return his stare and he freezes. I then turn away to look over the cityscape, dismissing him with my body language, and I hear his footsteps padding away shortly after. Lisa sighs, and I turn to look at her. She's wearing an expression that can only be described as an irritated pout.

"Now why'd you scare away our waiter?" she asks. "He was only curious."

"I don't appreciate being treated like a work of modern art," I respond. "If he wants to stare, he can at least wait until he's off shift."

"And you walking around in full costume doesn't contribute to his distraction at all" she comments dryly. I feel heat suffuse my face and snap a toe bone to keep focus. "It's fine if you want to be noticed in public," she says, shrugging her shoulders, "but you could be a little more aware of how it affects people around you."

"Duly noted," I say, closing the conversation. "Now then, why on earth did you take me here?" I ask. If good things just happened, I'd be due more than a few winning lottery tickets.

"Can't a girl just see a pretty new cape and want to say hi?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. I'm not sure how much of my scorn bleeds through my mask, but she picks up on it and lifts her hands in surrender. "I will admit, my motives are not entirely altruistic." And there's the catch. She leans forward, making eye contact. "I was actually wondering if I could ask you about which group you were going to join."

I shrug. "I currently don't want to join the Wards and I'm not sure about New Wave's recruitment policy. I'm not unmasking," I clarify, "And I'm not sure they'd be okay with that."

"You could join a villain team," she offers, leaning back in her chair. I snort. "Hear me out," she says, suddenly all business. "Most villains get caught, right? So why aren't prisons full of them?"

"Because keeping parahumans locked up is insanely difficult," I respond. "I mean, what sort of cage holds Kaiser and Hookwolf at the same time?"

"The Birdcage," she responds. "But do you ever wonder why people bother sending villains like Victor to regular jails?"

I shrug. I've never really thought in depth about it but even Uber and Leet can break out of regular prison. Surely after the first three or four cases of a villain breaking out of Max Sec the legal system would get the message and just send people straight to the Birdcage.

"It's to keep the game going," she says, smiling, like she knows something I don't. "See, the heroes need someone to fight. Preferably, a 'villain,'" she explains, using her fingers to form air quotes, "Should be a reasonable person that doesn't permanently maim or kill anyone. That way, the public gets a show, the villain gets some cash, and everyone profits."

I stare at her smiling face, like she has the truth and is laying it out like a pearl before me. Like she, a random civilian, has uncovered the perfect way for cape conflict to be structured.

In. Out. Mask on.

"Hookwolf regularly murders people," I state. Lisa's smile starts to falter. "Part of E88's initiation ritual is killing a minority, and they have more than a dozen capes," I say. The smile is gone. Good. "The ABB aren't any better. The other parahuman-run gangs regularly deal in cocaine and heroin, which probably kill more people than any cape. That sounds like a lot of permanent maiming to me," I comment lightly. Lisa frowns.

"I'm not saying that all villains follow the rules. The Undersiders-" she starts. No. You don't get to pretend like villains are good people.

"Unless you completely ignore the deaths of regular people, I haven't heard of any villains that follow your rules, Lisa," I interrupt, raising my voice a little. "I'm not sure if you're trying to be some sort of E88 apologist or what," a look of pain crosses her face, "But joining a villain team seems like the first step on one long slippery slope of bad ideas."

The waiter walks up with a blank expression and our food. I thank him quietly while Lisa simply nods in his direction. I look down at my plate. Penne pasta with some sort of red sauce that's too light to be marinara. I spear a few noodles on my fork and lift it up to my face before realizing I don't have a gap for eating in my mask.

Lisa looks over her tortellini and vegetable mix with a shaky smile. "So, how do you actually intend to eat that?"

On an impulse I reshape my helmet into a featureless oval and try warping my teeth to become part of my mask. Nope. But that gives me an idea.

I push some bone into my mouth, forming a thin layer of bone at the base of my gums. I form joints around my jaw muscles on the sides and slowly fracture the front of my mask, making sure that the break is an even zig zag of pointed teeth. I open and close my mouth a few times. The new outer jaw moves easily, and I use my outer "teeth" to pull the pasta off the fork. Hmm, spicy. Lisa's just staring at me and I raise an eyebrow behind my new mask.

"Have I got something on my face?" I ask.

She shakes her head, a small smile back. "Nah, it's just odd that you didn't want to retract the lower part of your mask and eat that way." Right, that probably would've been easier. I shrug and shovel more pasta into my mouth, trying to cover up my flush as something from the spice. Even though Lisa can't see my skin.

It doesn't seem to matter, and she laughs nervously before going back to her food. We eat in silence for a bit. My new "teeth" don't actually help me eat (they're outside my mouth), but they do make a quiet clicking noise with every new bite. Something to work on in the future.

About halfway through the food, the silence moves from polite to awkward. Should I apologize? For what? It's not like I didn't believe what I said. Maybe apologize for the framing? No, I think the word choice was pretty reasonable with the exception of the E88 apologist comment.

Something unsettling crawls up my spine as a pair of people approach me. Did I use my power to browbeat someone into silence? Have I already fucked up?

"Hey."

This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Exactly the pit I was trying to get out of. Exactly what Emma or Sophia or Madison would do if they got powers.

"Hey!"

God, why did I think this was good idea? Why did I think that Taylor Hebert, the possible-psycho murderer, could be a hero?

"Ugh, Vicky, aura."

Just like that the oppressive feeling of fear is gone. I let out a breath and notice the girl shaking my shoulders. Freckles and frizzy brown hair that makes me thankful for my own black locks, with a tired and knowing expression. On her chest is an ankh, black on a white background.

Amy Dallon. Isidis. The girl who saved my life. I look her in the eyes, and she meets mine unflinchingly.

"Vicky's scared of you, and it reflects in her aura," she says, motioning over her shoulder. I crane my neck and see a green-robed blonde with a figure to kill for sheepishly rubbing one arm. Justitia, A.K.A. Victoria Dallon. Alexandria Lite, with an aura that manipulates the emotions of those around her. At least partially involuntarily, apparently.

"Sorry," Justitia says apologetically. "I didn't mean to mess with your head there, it's just, uh..." she trails off, looking at my mouth.

"Your mask is creepy as hell right now," Isidis says bluntly, pulling a pair of chairs away from a nearby table. "Mind if we sit down?" she asks before collapsing into one anyway. I look to Justitia, who is pointedly waiting for my permission. I motion to the other chair and she sits down gracefully, nodding in thanks. Lisa looks peeved at the new arrivals but holds her tongue. After a moment of silence I decide to ask the first question.

"So how did you find me?" I ask. "Seems awfully convenient for New Wave to show up out of the blue." That, and I have no idea how to react to seeing a pair of A-listers out looking for me.

"How many capes are walking around the city in bone armor?" Isidis asks, holding up her phone and showing a social media feed filled with pictures of me walking down the street. Looks like my attempts to ward off the rubberneckers only worked a little. "Anyway, Vicky's got a whole speech prepared. She can take over from here," she finishes, stealing my glass of water and quickly swallowing half of it before eying my plate of noodles. "Say, would you mind if I..."

I push the plate over to her, already shifting my focus to Justitia. She wriggles a little bit in her seat, pointedly looking at some point on my forehead. I shift my mask back into it's normal helm, dropping the false jaw into my hand.

"Better?" I ask, leaning onto the table and steepling my hands. Lisa snorts.

"You realize you're literally holding a mutated human jaw bone in your hand," she snarks. I idly reshape it into a rose, the bone resistant but still malleable. Vicky takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. I recognize the motions, and focus my attention on her.

"New Wave would like to point out that they are an organization that complies with all laws and regulations. As such, we cannot condone extra legal killing," she says, voice stilted and jerky, as if trying to remember the answers to questions on a test. I feel my stomach drop a bit. She takes a breath and continues. "However, we would also like to make you aware that New Wave is willing to offer limited legal assistance, free of cost, in the interest of maintaining fair and just treatment of underage parahumans by the PRT." She places a business card in front of me, finally meeting my gaze.

"Agh, how can you eat this!?" The staring contest is broken as we both turn to look at Isidis, who is chugging water as Lisa tries to hold in laughter. Eventually, she finishes the glass and slams it down. "So hot!" she hisses, grabbing Lisa's water. After quaffing it and dragging the back of her sleeve across her mouth, she turns to me.

"Listen, we're not mourning Lung," Isidis clarifies. "But being independent is hard enough when you have one cape with excessive force problems on a team." Justitia deflates a little at that, and Isidis shoots her an apologetic look before moving on. "We're waiting to see if the Protectorate is going to cause a fuss over this. If they do, we'll help you so far as we think you deserve it. If they don't, maybe we can schedule some patrols together. Does that seem fair to you?" she asks.

I hold my tongue and think. Honestly? It doesn't seem fair that I need to be worried about a manslaughter charge after my first night of patrolling, and it feels like New Wave is just playing the publicity game.

I grind a few bones and sigh. On the other hand, it does seem reasonable for a group of almost-vigilantes who tread a fine line to keep a respectful distance from the new cape that may or may not be a criminal.

"It makes sense," I say, picking up the card and placing in a compartment next to Battery's. In. Out. Mask. Isidis nods and extends a hand for me to shake. I take it.

"Anyway, if you have some free time this week, I work at Brockton General in the ER from five to six in the afternoons," she says, giving me a firm shake and letting go. "Maybe I can use your bones as transplant tissue. It'd make you some money and let me increase my rates," she adds, smiling.

She and Justitia don't stick around. They fly off, Isidis in bridal carry, and Lisa checks her phone before bidding her own goodby, citing work. She leaves some money at the table (more than her half, given the number of twenties on the pile), and suddenly I'm alone.

It doesn't feel quite so nice now.

I finish the rest of the pasta (which isn't that hot) and call over the waiter.

"Cheque please," I say, mindful of my mask. He shakes his head, face carefully showing no emotion and looking over my head.

"It's on the house," he responds, hands hidden behind his back. I look up at him and see a mask worthy of my own.

Why am I getting a free meal? People give gifts for reasons, even if they're altruistic ones. So what's the reason here? One is that I drew in more customers than I scared away and now they want me to keep coming. Another is that the person running this place appreciates me killing Lung and wants to say thanks.

A third is that they want to keep the murder cape happy.

I motion towards Lisa's money, discreetly adding a fifty to the pile. Way too much but I don't have any change. "The girl I came here with left her half of the bill," I say. The waiter takes it as permission and collects the bills, not spending a moment more in my company. I'll take that as my cue to leave.

I leave a bone rose on the host's podium, trying to ignore the stares of the other restaurant goers, and start walking back to the alley where I left my clothes, thinking about recruitment, justice, and other people.

Last edited: Jun 9, 2018

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Nov 25, 2017

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T0PH4T

T0PH4T

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Dec 2, 2017

#486

SpaceWhalesForLife said:

I mean absolutely no offence to the author but shouldnt this discussion be moved to the debate thread, or something along those lines rather than the story thread.

I mean, this is a good point.

Rigor Mortis 2.4

The trip home is a quiet affair. I get back around five, well before Dad. Lacking anything better to do I start cooking dinner. I'm still a little full from the pasta but meat loaf takes time to cook.

While I'm cutting up onions I take stock of my situation. I've been approached by both of the major powers in Brockton Bay, along with a minor one and some random person preaching the virtues of a life of villainy. None of them made a good offer but none looked hostile either. I wonder how long that will last with the Nazis if (when I chide myself) I start going after the skinheads. I don't think New Wave or the Protectorate want to bring me in (yet) but the whole killing-in-self-defense thing has definitely burnt bridges.

I toss the onions into a bowl and start adding other ingredients, mashing them together with my hands. I haven't talked to Parian yet so that's something to plan for tomorrow. On the other hand, I have no idea how to contact her. She's probably got some sort of online presence so my first stop is the library. Once I'm finished checking out her schedule I'll take a second look at the NEPEA-5 and the plain speak annotations to see what I can actually do. That and a medical textbook to see if leaving a bunch of bones lying around is going to accidentally re-start the Black Plague. Given that Battery didn't bring it up I'm probably fine but you never know.

After putting the mash into a pan and throwing it into the oven, I set a timer and go upstairs to Dad's room. He keeps Mom's old things in his closet including a certain book that's oddly appropriate.

The trunk has a thin layer of dust on it, thick enough to remind me about just how long it's been since Dad and I have talked about Mom. I gently brush it clean and lift the lid, drinking in the sight of neatly folded dresses, old pens in fancy cases, and books. Perfect. I lift them slowly, reading every title. A Clockwork Orange. To Kill a Mockingbird. Candide. I can almost hear her voice from when she used to read me these at bedtime. I eventually light upon one of the few pieces of nonfiction in the stack. A thick brick of a book titled The Flower Dictionary, resting just below Don Quixote. I lift it free, opening it to a random page and taking a look at the illustration. Heather, for luck. Helenium, for tears. Exactly what I needed.

I replace Don Quixote, taking the dictionary's place above As I Lay Dying, and put the rest of the books back. I head back down to the kitchen, open up the dictionary to page one, and start expanding my repertoire.

The meatloaf is being kept warm in the oven and I've made it almost halfway through the 'I's when I hear the creak of the front porch. I hurriedly drag the bone back into my arm and close the book, setting it to the side. The door rattles a little as Dad opens it, revealing a conflicted expression on his face. He gives me a perfunctory nod before striding over to the table, sitting down and staring intently at his clasped hands. He's thinking then. I pull the meatloaf out and cut some generous slices up for us. He smiles, transparent and awkward as glass, when I hand him a slice. A bad day at work then. I return it.

For a while there's only the sound of silverware against ceramic. I keep trying to think of a way to broach the subject of skipping school but every starter seems like a terrible idea. Dad must catch on at some point because he puts down his silverware and looks me in the eye. "Is there something you want to talk about?" he asks.

Crap. "Yeah," I say, keeping my voice even. I wonder if I could form a lattice around my heart that could keep it from pounding so fast? I feel a flush rising and grind some bones together. Calm, calm. In. Out. Mask on. "I wasn't feeling well in school today, so I was thinking about skipping tomorrow." Really? I feel sick? That was the best I could come up with?

Dad seems to buy it though. His face immediately moves from interest to concern. "Do you need to see a doctor?" he asks. "I can drive you in the morning if-"

"No, it's not that bad," I interrupt, shaking my head and waving a hand. I'm not sure how many different ways there are for a doctor to determine if a person is a parahuman and I don't want to find out. "I was just thinking that maybe I should take a few days off. Don't want to get anyone sick," I add with a shaky smile. Now that I think about it, I wouldn't mind Emma coming down with a case of osteoporosis--

I grind my toe bones together. Not in the house.

"Well, if you're sure," he says. After a few more bites, he sighs. "I'm just worried about you missing school," he confesses.

"I'll be fine, Dad," I assure him, forcing a smile. It hurts lying to him. On the other hand, telling him his daughter is a killer and is playing hooky to try and join a group of capes is also probably not a good option. Hopefully this hurts less.

We finish the meal in silence. After a perfunctory good night we head to our rooms and attend to our nightly rituals. Dad spends some time with a picture of Mom, remembering, and I twist bone into webs in the moonlight.

Wake up. Run. Return to a quiet breakfast with Dad. Bus to the Library. Nothing of note happens, and I'm glad for it. That can wait until I have a plan.

I hop onto a computer and login as a guest on PHO. Parian, Parian, Parian, wherefore art thou Parian? Apparently working as a living advertisement for some toy store for the next three weeks, somewhere on the Boardwalk. I pull up NEPEA-5 in a separate tab to check if it's legal. Yes, so long as you aren't a Master that can affect humans. Interesting, and something to look into. After taking some more time to consult the legalities of working as a cape I log off of the computer and head to the Boardwalk.

Brockton Bay is famous for two things: one, an insane amount of criminal capes per capita. Two, tourism. Whether you're a veteran traveler looking for new food and new sights or an overworked parent looking for something to get the kids to sit down for a minute, there's something for you, and it's probably on the Boardwalk.

After making sure no enforcers are looking at me, I duck into an alleyway, strip, and armor up. When I emerge the crowds parts, and something in me is pleased. If only I could pull out a bone pike or seven at school, force them to bow to--

In. Out. Mask on. No murder thoughts near people who don't deserve them. I think about the statement for a moment, and revise it. No murder thoughts near people. Much better.

Soon enough I come upon the store. Given the lack of animated plushies, Parian probably hasn't arrived yet. Odd, but her profile stated that she tends to work around lunchtime. I head into a cafe, order some tea, and settle in for a wait.

About halfway through my third cup, a green and black giraffe about the size of two men steps out of the storefront, receiving applause and laughter from passerbys. It's followed by a monkey of some sort, no smaller, who has a blond woman in a white full-face mask riding on it's shoulder. There she is.

I settle my bill, wait more than a few minutes for the cashier to figure out whether or not she can break a hundred, and eventually leave about ten bucks short of what I'm owed. Parian's still making her animals dance and I watch on from a respectful distance. It would be rude to interrupt her while she's working.

I get more than a few stares but after seeing me studiously ignore anyone asking for an autograph most people don't bother me. Parian's routine goes on as normal, toys and clothes are bought, and all is well with the world.

Eventually, someone comes out of the store and makes a motion towards their wrist. Parian nods and waves goodbye to the crowd, with many 'aww's being drawn from the younger members of her audience. I take that as my cue and move towards her. The crowd parts, creating a two-foot space between their soft flesh and my gently clicking bone plates. I follow Parian into the shop, praying that she'll listen.

"Excuse me?" I say. Parian glances over her shoulder, then freezes. Fuck. She must have heard about Lung and drawn the wrong conclusion. I raise my hands in surrender. In. Out. Mask on. Don't be threatening.

"I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions," I state, staying a comfortable distance away. "Over lunch," I offer. "My treat." I'm burning through the cash from the rich guy faster than I want, but you've got to spend money to make money. That, and I need to come across as non-threatening as possible.

She stares at me. I can't make out her face but it's probably got something close to apprehension on it.

"I'm not interested in joining any sort of team-" she starts, speaking slowly. I quickly shake my head. Parian's explicitly stated her neutrality multiple times and infringing on it wouldn't look good. That, and it'd be wrong.

"No, nothing like that," I state. "I was actually wondering if you could give me some advice on how to monetize my power," I explain. "Who to talk to, what sort of laws I should be aware of, that sort of thing."

She looks at me, and I get an idea about what it must be like to look at my own mask. Just a blank expanse of white with two little black marks where the eyes should be. I wonder if she's as creeped out as I am?

"Lunch," she agrees, and behind my mask I wince at the tone. It sounds like she's worried about being shanked if she refuses.

"You really don't have to-" I begin, but this time she cuts me off.

"No no, it's fine," she says, moving towards the door, "Perfectly fine," she finishes, walking carefully around me. I follow with a sick feeling in my gut. What did I do wrong?

She takes us to a little cafe and gets two paninis with tomato, avocado, and swiss cheese. Not something I'd normally enjoy, but it's edible. Parian has a word with a waiter and we get taken to a secluded room on the second floor.

She sits down at a small table, unwrapping the sandwich with slightly shaking fingers. After fiddling with the side of her mask the lower half falls off and reveals dark skin. I sit down across from her, more than a little surprised. Somehow she picks up on it and sighs. I feel myself begin to flush. Damn

"Yeah, no one expects it," she says, a tired note seeping into her voice, and this time I see the frown at the edges of her mouth. "Anyway, lunch. Please, just ask your questions." She takes a bite out of her sandwich.

In. Out. I form the lower half of my mask into a jaw and have a conservative taste of mine. Not bad but it could use some meat. I swallow and decide to ask the most pressing question.

"How can I stay neutral?" I ask.

She laughs, a note of incredulity in her voice. After a moment, she composes herself and stares at the table top. "I," she stresses her own pronoun, "am not powerful enough to scare people, and I make sure not to help or hurt anyone." Fuck. I feel something writhe in my stomach. Neither of those statements apply to me. "You," she points at me with her sandwich, "Already have the enmity of one gang, and the rest of them will try to spin that into an invitation to one of theirs." She shakes her head. "That ship has sailed," she mutters, taking another mouthful.

I lean back into my chair, feeling a sense of weariness. Well, it was worth a question. "What about resources?" I ask. "Like, if I wanted to sell something made from my bones?" Maybe I can get rich enough to sue anyone who attacks me into the next time zone.

She pulls out a pen and scribbles a number down on a napkin. "This is my lawyer. He's got a whole firm that specializes in helping Rogue capes. Call between four and seven from a pay phone," she continues, pushing the napkin across. "Be respectful, be professional, and it shouldn't be hard." I tuck it away into my armor and eat some more mediocre sandwich. There's one productive thing done today. Something to look into after helping Isidis out.

"Is there any law I should be careful about? Not just NEPEA-5," I clarify. "Little local laws that don't show up on basic web searches." I've done some research but there's only so much legalese a person can look through before they fall asleep.

Parian shakes her head. "Brockton Bay is pretty cape friendly. Kinda has to be, with Isidis." I nod. Limits on parahuman abilities would hit the corpse-grafter first, and no politician wants to be known as the one who stopped one of the world's few healers from working.

"Thanks," I say. I extend a hand and she waves it away, a serious look on the exposed part of her face. I try not to feel hurt.

"You are really scary," she says, and the fear in her voice is palpable. "Please please please don't try to talk to me again. I work very hard to stay free of fighting, and even this much might put me in the firing line." There's no guile on her exposed face. Just desperation mixed with fear. I try to contextualize, to imagine how I would react if a gang banger showed up at school and asked me how to get a job.

Well then.

"I won't contact you again," I say, nodding mechanically. We finish our food in silence. Parian re-attaches the bottom half of her mask and walks away. I leave shortly after, dropping a few bills by the cash register and processing her words.

I need a walk. To clear my head. Then I need something to do so I don't go insane. I check the clock. One in the afternoon. I need to walk for four hours, and then I need to be at the hospital to meet Isidis and see what good I can do.

A/N: So, it's nearing finals time, and I'm getting to the end of my back log of chapters. There's going to be an update next week, but the week after that there won't. I intend to use that week to finish up school, mentally recuperate, and draft 2-3 chapters. Over winter break I'm aiming to keep up a similar writing pace so I can enter the school year with a nice, large buffer. Also, I'll be in Vietnam for a bit, so a few updates are going to come at a weird time.

Last edited: Jun 9, 2018

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Dec 2, 2017

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Dec 9, 2017

#529

Yeah, I don't think I can come up with a joke today. Blame finals and travel plans. A/N at the bottom about a short hiatus.

Rigor Mortis 2.5

I wander the Boardwalk in a daze, hanging onto just enough presence of mind to step around people when they don't move out of my way, processing Parian's speech.

I don't think I can blame her for trying to stay out of cape fights. I don't know who else she's looking out for or what responsibilities she has. I don't know what costs she's paid for her freedom, her image. It's fair for her to be scared of losing it. The logic of her rejection doesn't make me feel any less like a pariah though.

I keep walking, eyes down, and start trying to make a flower. Nothing from the book, nothing natural. Something that I can push this feeling of hollowness into. I let my power go to work, twining and flexing like it does when Emma gets in a good dig, or Madison's pranks really land, or Sophia sneers half an inch from my face and all I want to do is lose myself in a whirlwind of blades, spikes, hooks--

I grow a rose in my right hand and snap it off, luxuriating in the focus it brings. Past wrongs are not a good line of thought. My left hand is still holding the project, which is a mass of thorned vines shaped vaguely like a spider lily, still growing, woven together to form an elaborate vase. Convenient.

I wonder...

I keep pushing my confusion and emptiness into the spider-lily thing while growing roses in my right hand. Interesting. I wonder how many different projects I can juggle? I keep creating, drawing further into myself and angling my walk towards the hospital.

By the time I'm happy with my new creation I've filled it with more than a dozen roses and have arrived at Brockton General. The clock says it's not quite three, far too early. Chances are Isidis isn't even out of school yet.

I stand by the main entrance awkwardly holding the strange sculpture of bone and weighing my options. I could go home but by the time I got there I'd just have to bus back here again. No point to that. School's a misery, and even if it wasn't I'm supposed to be sick. I don't exactly have any friends so I can't call anyone and ask to hang out. Patrolling wouldn't mean much in this part of town and I don't know enough about the law to do it properly. Another thing to look into at the library.

On the other hand, selling flowers at a hospital is probably legal...

I step through the revolving doors, nodding politely at the people sitting in chairs reading or watching the clock. I get fewer looks than I expect. Probably because most people here have more important things to worry about. I continue to the receptionist's desk, place the vase on it, and wait for her to get off the phone. A few muttered words later and she puts down the receiver with a huff, balling in her eyes before turning to me.

"How can I help you..." she trails off, a mix of surprise and caution in her voice.

"White Rose," I state. It feels silly saying my cape name to someone. Like I'm playing dressup, and everyone is only humoring me. "I was wondering if you could tell me where I should go if I wanted to sell some flowers." I motion to the vase. I don't think this is how capes are supposed to market their wares but it's not like there are a ton of guides for parahumans who don't want to fight.

"There's a gift shop down the hallway on the right," she says, slowly and carefully. I nod in appreciation and leave the vase on the desk. Free advertising, or a gift to an overworked and underpaid employee.

The gift shop is a sad affair. Filled with fresh flowers, stuffed animals, cards and candies, it's positively bursting with commercial cheeriness. The cashier has a semi-genuine grin, and the shelves have enough space on them to indicate some amount of use. That doesn't change the fact that you can still smell powerful disinfectant under all the pollen, or sweep away the crumpled Get Well Soon! cards on the ground by the spinning rack.

This is the place where people buy gifts for the injured. There aren't a lot of good ways to spin that, no matter how good your marketing team is.

I walk up to the cashier, who physically shrinks as her gaze goes up to my eyes. Damn. Not the impression I want to generate here. Girl's just doing her job.

"Could I talk to the person in charge of supplying the stuff on the shelves..." I glance at her name tag, "Jenny?" I try to keep my voice positive. Just a six foot plus cape looking to make a living, kinda like you. Nothing to be afraid of here.

"Um, sure," she says, eyes never leaving my lenses as she reaches out with one hand, scrambling for a receiver. After a few attempts she grabs it and turns away from me, punching in some numbers with shaking fingers. Well, she's not calling 911 so I'll count this as a win.

I spend some time examining the vases. They're in a range of colors, the whole spectrum of the rainbow with irregular, organic shapes. I grow a rose and place it inside one of them, examine it for a moment, and pull it back out, shaking my head in disappointment. It looks wrong somehow, like a minimalist landscape on the wall of family living room. Neither the flower nor the vase are bad on their own but they sure as hell don't mix. I kill some time, adjusting vases and trying out different flowers, looking for a combination that works.

"White Rose?" a masculine voice asks, bored and steady. I turn away from an arrangement of sage and roses and come face to face with an grizzled man no younger than fifty, with leathery brown skin, grey streaks peppering black hair, and startling blue eyes. He sticks out a hand.

"Marco Borkowski, inventory management specialist. I heard you wanted to talk to me?" He has a slight twinge to his voice, like he's spent some time rolling his r's and hasn't completely shaken the habit. I like it.

I take his hand and shake it twice, firm and fair. "Yeah, I can grow flowers and was wondering if I could replace some of your suppliers," I joke, motioning to the now-filled vases behind me. Marco looks over my shoulder and shrugs.

"How much do you want to charge us?" he asks, eyes neutral as he scans the array of bone in glass. I move out of the way and he moves forward, touching and shaking the flowers gently.

"No idea," I respond honestly. "I figure I'd provide a few for cheap and test the market and figure it out from there." There isn't really a way to track the price of parahuman biomass. I mean, Tinkers can sell their stuff for Scion knows how much but the number of capes outside the Toybox that turn their powers towards economic pursuits is not high. As a result it's a wild, wild west, with no one knowing when NEPEA-5 and Co. will step in.

Marco nods along and pulls out a cluster of Forget-Me-Nots, holding them up to the light and watching how a little filters through the thin petals. "What sort of limits do you have?" he asks. "What can't you make?"

I lean against a shelf of chocolates and cross my arms. An interesting way of phrasing the question.

"Well, I can only do bone," I began, speaking slowly. "That means that things like Honeysuckle are tricky. Too thin, and apt to break if you jiggle them too much. Besides that, I'm pretty sure I don't have any hard limits." If it wasn't for the spike of pain every time I broke a bone, I'd say I won the jackpot of powers. That, and the fact that people like the Triumvirate and Dragon exist. All power, no downside.

He replaces the flower and turns back to me. "Bring in your lawyer," he says. "We can't sell these," he adds, motioning to the filled vases. "We don't have any idea if there's anything off about your powers, and we don't want to be liable. On the other hand, if you get checked out, we'd be more than willing to make a deal."

I nod. The same concerns I had. "Are things normally this hard for parahumans?" I ask. The concerns aren't unreasonable, but at this rate I'll be able to join the Protectorate instead of becoming a florist.

"Do you know how much paperwork legal had to fill out for Isidis?" he responds, raising an eyebrow. "Armsmaster's sent a few upgrades our way, and it's not unusual for those to take months to get through a review board. You're lucky we can get you onboard with just a third party evaluation and a contract or seven." He cracks a smile. "Besides, the profit margin for parahuman stuff is high enough that it's usually worth it."

We exchange a few more pleasantries, but he has work and I need to take the flowers to a biohazard bin. He gives me his card (I'm building quite the collection) and directions to the nearest dumpster. I thank him and gather the flowers in a box of bone before waving a final goodbye and heading off to the back of the building.

Once I'm done tossing the flowers into the trash (and warping them beyond recognition to discourage dumpster diving next to used needles) I head back into the lobby and check the time. Almost four. Ugh. I look around for something, anything to do. My eye stops on a shelf, piled high with beat-up hardcovers and well-worn paperbacks. I pick one up at random and check the title. The Old Man and the Sea. Well, it's been a while. I settle into a chair and take some time to remember Santiago.

A short time after the Marlin has finally given up the ghost, someone clears their throat in front of me. I look up and see Isidis in surgical scrubs, with an ankh over her heart and a raised eyebrow.

"Ready to experiment?" she asks. I nod. She jerks her head towards a hallway labeled 'intensive care.'

"Let's get going then."

Turns out, my power does work well with hers. But not perfectly.

I need to break the bone off for it to count as dead flesh, so I either have to do my best impression of a woodchipper and shatter the bone out as fast as I make it, or I have to have pre-made pieces.

That's not the biggest issue, though. Turns out, Isidis can't turn my bones into flesh. They're great for fixing broken bones and marrow transfusions, but I can't make organs or blood for her. I give her some skin grafts, which work well enough, but that's as far as I can go.

She tells me not to worry about it. That this much is going to save lives, that no one expected to find a true panacea thanks to just two capes. I take the compliment and shatter a few of my toe bones to keep the mask on. When that doesn't push down the disappointment completely, I break a rib. Better.

At the end of her shift Isidis drags us both into a bathroom.

"Strip and shower," she says, pulling off the scrubs and tossing them into a waiting bin. I turn away and do my best to keep my flush down while reeling a little from shock. She wants me to what now!? "Shedding your armor isn't going to do enough," she clarifies, grabbing a bar of soap and heading off to a stall. "You actually need to get disinfected. Use the antibacterial soap," she finishes, voice partially drowned out by the pounding of water against ceramic.

Ah. Right. That's what she means.

I grab a towel and a bar of soap before walking into the shower stall and turn on the hot water. There's no problem, I tell myself. You're just disinfecting. It still takes a try or three to pull the bones back in all the way, and longer to stop flinching at the stall door every other second.

It's not that I expect Isidis to come in and peek, or anyone else for that matter. It's just that old habits are a bitch to break.

Eventually I get clean, armor up again, and go back to the hallway. Isidis is waiting in street clothes, loose jeans and a Bad Canary shirt, a minimalistic yellow profile on a black background.

"Thanks for helping me out today," she says, smiling gently. "If you want to make this a regular thing, we can talk about paying you for it."

"I'm looking into a lawyer already," I respond. "And I'm glad to help, Isidis."

"Amy," she says, shaking her head. "Out of costume, I'm Amy. Makes life easier." She walks towards the exit, and after a moment I follow her.

"Amy," I say, trying the name on and finding it not entirely unpleasant. "Do you have any suggestions-"

"For being a new cape?" she interrupts. "No idea. No one in New Wave is good example of how an average parahuman develops. You want to talk to someone useful? Try a Ward," she finishes bluntly, pushing through the door and holding it for me. I nod my head in thanks and move past her, pushing down a feeling of hurt. She probably didn't mean to be harsh. The response is curt, but honest.

"It was a pleasure working with you," I say, extending a hand, smoothing down some of the sharper edges on my gauntlet. Isi -Amy I remind myself- takes it and pulls me in for a one-armed hug. She barely comes up to my shoulder.

"Don't get hurt," she says, pushing out of the hug and walking towards the bus stop, pulling out a book and sitting down on a bench while a pair of patients smoke by the sign.

All in all, not the worst interaction I've had today. I walk back towards the Boardwalk, trying to remember if there's a payphone on the way I can use to contact Parian's lawyer.

A/N: So, remember the hiatus I talked about last chapter? A few new pieces of information have come to light.

First, my trip is two weeks, not one.

Second, I won't be able to bring my laptop with me.

This infuriates me. I have a rather long winter break, and was planning to use it to build up a large enough backlog to make it to spring break. Minus two weeks, that gets a lot harder. That, and even if I finished all my finals today, I wouldn't be able to just hammer out a consolation chapter and post it, becuase for that I would need my laptop. The reason I'm not going to write stuff using a paper and pen is because then I would have to re-type it up onto a laptop, which is both a pain in the ass and inefficient. I write this stuff for fun, and making it less fun would defeat the point of writing in the first place and induce burnout faster than anything else.

I am so sorry. The hiatus is going to be for at least two weeks, probably three. Next week becuase I don't have any chapters, the week after becuase I'll be disconnected from effective writing tools, and probably the week after that because I'l have two days to write something reasonable and get it to a beta and get it back and edit it.

I'll try to make up for this by doing some more micro-level planning, but honestly this kind of just sucks. In order not to end on a downer/provide something for people to do, here's a question:

What's a good name for Taylor's flower shop?

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T0PH4T

Dec 9, 2017

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