NOTE
Originally, all I came up with was the alternate 'bathroom incident', which is what you read in the previous chapter. The imagined scene's shock value got to me, and as I wrote it in a passionate frenzy, I was constantly stunned and thrilled at how primal it was becoming. It was so sensual without necessarily being sexual.
It seems like Chapter 2 falls short of Chapter 1's intensity and enthrallment. In all honesty, this is because everything after Chapter 1 is 'extra'. I can't help but feel the rest of the story will fail to match the impact of that scene in the bathroom. Nevertheless, I have many ideas and I'm eager to continue this story.
END NOTE
"It was an accident at track practice."
That is what I told the teachers in my afternoon classes that day when they marked attendance and noticed the damage on my face. A busted up face was an unusual injury for track and field but not one that spurred more questions. Art came and went, the person of my frustration had thankfully skipped class. A text from Emma said Taylor had skipped fourth period too.
The students who had seen me earlier that day, and who knew my excuse was a lie, kept it to themselves, though I heard them gossip about it. Emma kept over-the-counter painkillers in her pocketbook for period cramps. She offered them to me, but I refused because of my track meet that afternoon. A little pain was a small price to pay to keep my wits and reflexes sharp. However, I wholly expected to be miserable later.
Emma tried asking me about what had happened in the bathroom twice more. She gave up when I ignored her. Madison knew she wouldn't get an answer if Emma didn't. The general student body new better than to try, and Emma, recognizing my bad mood, did her best to steer conversation and attention away from me. She was a good friend to have.
At the end of school Emma stood in front of me and waited expectantly. When it was obvious I wouldn't say anything, she turned and left. I always told Emma everything, but I didn't always tell her everything right away. But would I tell her everything that had happened in the bathroom? On the floor? All of it? I wasn't sure that I could. Hell, I wasn't sure what had happened.
The Friday track meet after school was the only reason I didn't ditch my afternoon classes. The team bussed to the local community college where we would compete against Arcadia High. Coach Murphy separated me on the field and demanded to know if I had been fighting. I showed him my back and started stretching for my first event. He wasn't about to bury his track star. College recruits were already scouting me even though I was only a sophomore. Despite the cold shoulder, my coach sent the sports medic over to me. The man made no comment about having to treat a Winslow athlete before the competition. After verifying it wasn't broken, the medic put a cream on my elbow and wrapped it. Then he spent several minutes applying a chilled enswell to my eye. I was offered pills for pain but refused them.
Just four events. I could have done fewer, but my pride refused. A tall, long-legged bitch beat me in the 100 and 200 meter sprints. She was a senior from Arcadia, and on a good day I could have beaten her. I took first in the short hurdles and the one mile run. By the end I was gritting my teeth through the pulsing in my face and the throbbing in my head. The medic came round again, and this time his offer of painkillers wasn't turned away.
My mom was waiting next to her old sedan in the parking lot. She had her arms crossed and stared me down as I approached.
Mom pointed at my face and started in on me. "You didn't have a black eye this morning," she accused. I pushed her hand away from my face, but she continued, "Fighting in school is violating your probation, Sophia."
"Then call them and tell them," I challenged her.
I went around her and got in the back of the car. I really didn't want to sit next my mom in the front. My little sister, Christine, was already buckled up in the backseat. I ignored her too and rested my head against the window and closed my eyes for the ride home.
Mom nagged on the way back, but I paid her no mind. The only bit that I caught was, "… because you're in a bad mood all the time…"
I really was in a bad mood. Class and then track had been something of a distraction, something to occupy my mind. Now there was nothing to screen my thoughts from the bathroom. And Taylor fucking Hebert. She had beaten me up. I had won, of course. But I got beat up by Taylor Hebert. I felt like crap now because of her. Shadow Stalker had been hit, beat up, and even stabbed. But Sophia Hess had never been pushed like that. And of all the people to do it… the pathetic pushover who never fought or yelled, but only ever submitted to being used like a doormat. She was everything I hated most. She had hurt me, and it embarrassed me, and I hated her for that too.
Home was a decades old house that needed to be repainted. The driveway that cut from the street, over the sidewalk, and to the carport was cracked and sprouting weeds. The yard was small, the rooms were small, and the people living there were small. Between Emma's place and my room in the Wards' dormitory at Protectorate HQ, I didn't spend very much time here.
I was out of the car and unlocking the front door with my own key before Mom had even set the car's parking break. She would be wanting to give me more of a face-to-face talking to, but I didn't plan on giving her the chance. I made for the bathroom and took another dose of painkillers before stripping down for a shower. I made the water hot and tried to relax.
Taylor. Fucking. Hebert.
I remembered her warmth on the bathroom floor. In hindsight, it had not all been external. I could recall feeling the heat in my head. It had sort of been like the extreme opposite of brain freeze. My head had felt warm, and I hadn't wanted to move away from the heat source like how I never wanted to get out of bed on a cold winter morning.
I hadn't molested her, right? I hadn't put my hand down her pants. My hand was up her shirt, but I hadn't groped her tits, not that there was even anything to grope. That bitch was flat as fuck. And anyway, I wouldn't. She wasn't attractive. I wasn't attracted to her. I'm not gay. My best friend was a ten, and I wasn't attracted to her either.
I thought of a conversation with a guidance councilor back in middle school about my bad behavior. He had tried to scare me with horror stories about girls' juvenile detention centers, about how some girls would sexually assault and extort others as a show of dominance. I had largely disregarded the scare tactic at the time. After all, parahumans didn't go to regular institutions. And I would never be victimized like that because my power made me an expert escapist.
Not that I would ever run away. I'm not a coward. But if I had to… I could… I could always get away from someone trying to hurt me.
As with every Saturday, I didn't get to sleep in. I was up before the rest of my family and sat myself at my personal vanity in my bedroom. My mom was black Puerto Rican and had long dark curly hair with a red sheen. I had her dark eyes, and my hair was similar with less kink and no red, but my complexion was a bit lighter due to my father having been white. I grabbed a warm straightening iron and set to arranging my hair the way I preferred.
The skin under and around my right eye was bright reddish purple and swollen. It was even worse than yesterday and felt tender. It looked bad. There was also some discoloration on my nose in the space between my eyes. I decided to forgo any cosmetics because there wasn't anything that could cover the damage.
The Wards had a mandatory meeting every Saturday morning. I was sitting on the steps of my front porch a few minutes before 8 o'clock with my costume in a gym bag and schoolwork in a backpack. A nondescript white SUV with tinted windows pulled up.
Sometimes I made my own way to PHQ, whether walking, bussing, or rooftop running as Shadow Stalker, and sometimes I called for a ride. I had received a text earlier that morning from Aegis requesting me to take the ride. That probably meant he would be riding too. And it probably meant he wanted to talk.
I climbed into the backseat of the SUV with my bags, and the vehicle set off. The driver was a nondescript, sunglasses-wearing grunt in PRT fatigues. The front seat passenger was Carlos in civilian clothes, aka Aegis, team captain of the Brockton Bay Wards. He was a fit, tanned teenager and wore his hair long and girly. He had once mentioned to me that he was Puerto Rican too, as if we were supposed to bond over that fact. He was more chipper than I liked, but I admit that he made a decent captain.
He twisted around to talk to me, and then startled when he saw my face, "Holy cow, are you okay?"
"It's just a track accident, don't worry about it. Why are you here?"
"Relax, it's nothing. Remember Browbeat, our new guy? We're bringing him in for his first team meeting, and I thought it'd be nice if we rode with him."
Browbeat was the newest addition to the Wards. He was a unique Brute classification that could deal and take punishment by modifying his body at will, bolstered by some force field stuff. Minus the flying capability, he would fill a similar role to Aegis.
Carlos asked, "Minus the eye, how did your meet go yesterday?"
"Fine."
"It doesn't look so bad, you know. You're uhh… still pretty."
I had planned to give short responses until he caught on that I didn't want to talk, but then I fixed him with a glare, and it sped things along. He turned away. A few minutes of travel later, we stopped in front of a house in an unremarkable neighborhood where all the homes were quaint and cookie-cutter.
Carlos looked from his cell phone to the house, "Right address. I'll text him and let-"
The driver cut in with a voice of disbelief, "You gotta be shittin' me…"
Carlos and I looked at what had the driver's attention. Shutting the home's front door, then strolling down the driveway, was a muscular cape in a form-fitting blue costume. He approached the SUV's driver window. After a moment's hesitation, the driver rolled down the window.
"I'm Browbeat. You here to pick me up?"
Carlos leaned across the driver, "Dude, get in the car!"
I unbuckled and slid across the backseat so that Browbeat could get in behind the driver. I was looking out of the car in all directions, searching for anyone that might have seen a big dumb blue cape leave his house. Across the street and one house down was an old man in a house robe walking a small poofy dog. And staring right at us.
"You moron!" I barbed at Browbeat.
Carlos tried to deescalate, "It's cool. It isn't so bad. Only one guy."
"For what it's worth," Browbeat said, "most everybody on my block knows I have powers."
"That isn't a good thing," I refuted. "You might want to change your name to Blockhead."
Carlos was probably about to chastise me, but the nameless driver jumped in with, "There's an independent cape in Miami already named Blockhead."
It broke the tension. The boys laughed. Even I chuckled. And we were on our way.
Browbeat said, "Sorry for that. I just wasn't thinking. I'm Daniel by the way, or Browbeat. Don't think I've met you guys."
Carlos said, "I met you in costume, I'm Aegis, Carlos right now."
"Shadow Stalker," I supplied.
"That's Sophia," Carlos added, much nicer.
Browbeat patted the driver's shoulder, "And you, sir?"
The driver seemed surprised to be addressed then said, "Folgers, like the coffee."
Carlos started a lighthearted conversation about in-costume and out-of-costume protocol, and I ignored it in favor of checking my phone. My civilian cell was a crappy hand-me-down flip phone. But my Ward phone was a smartphone model specifically designed for Protectorate cape use. It was the best money couldn't buy.
I checked my Facebook, then looked over emails, and finally went to the Parahumans Online community site and checked for my name. 'Shadow Stalker' was tagged in a couple posts. One was specifically about me.
'BigLippy86' had started the thread:
Title: Meaning of Shadow Stalker's mask?
Body: Shadow Stalker's full-face mask is really the only feature of her costume that pops out. It is of a feminine face, but isn't very emotive. Actually it's a little bit creepy, but in an artsy sort of way. She doesn't do many interviews and reporters never ask about the mask. What you guys think?
There were a handful of responses.
RaddoDeux: Her mask looks seriously pissed off or maybe constipated.
Hollyhotgirl: }RaddoDeux{ it's stuck in the "I smell poo" look. stupid swear filter made me say poo. [edited]
Lordofrings: O wpmder wjat ots ,ade pf
SSnumbah1: Shadow Stalker is my waifu!
HatTipper: (1/3) The contrast of black and white together is quite stark. In fact, there is no other pair of colors that contrast more. We can safely assume that the white against black contrast is intentional. Why? Because of what we know of SS's powers. Surely an all black attire would make for better camouflage while in her Breaker state. Therefore the bright mask must have some measure of sentiment.
HatTipper: (2/3) The most prudent question regarding-
I stopped reading the replies and typed my own.
Shadow Stalker [verified]: It's just a mask guys. I like the way it looks :facepalm:
I closed the site before I could get a reply notification from 'SSnumbah1'. He was blocked from my profile, but it wouldn't stop him from replying at me in a thread.
There. That was my quota for the week. Protectorate public relations encouraged, read commanded, its heroes to be approachable and likeable. One way being to participate in the online discussion boards.
During my time on the phone, we had made it to the PHQ bridge checkpoint. The checkpoint was a few small buildings and a large garage gated behind a fence. There were utility vehicles on hand to transport capes and personnel to the base. In addition to guards, there was a PRT quick response team situated there on standby 24/7. Our driver stopped next to the gate booth and gave identification to the gate guard. The guard radioed in then gave us the go ahead. We drove onto the bridge.
A distance from Brockton Bay's shoreline was PHQ. It was built on an oilrig, though the bay had never had oil, which had been assembled out in the bay for this express purpose. The building was gaudily over-engineered with curved and sweeping architecture. There were spiraled columns and supports that seemingly offered no structural integrity. The building was illuminated on all sides by high powered lights from the ground up.
The only way to reach the base, other than by helicopter or a cape's power, was to traverse the hardlight bridge. It was a bridge literally made of light, and then 'hardened' so that it became solid and capable of supporting great weight. It glowed and was transparent enough to see the water dozens of feet below. At twelve feet across and only two inches thick, it was something of a tourist attraction that brought people to the edge of the bay just to see it when heavy vehicles traversed the distance.
"This is really cool. I've never been on the bridge before," Browbeat had rolled down his window and stuck his head out to look.
When we cleared the checkpoint, our driver gunned the vehicle and we rocketed over the bridge. Browbeat jerked back and white-knuckled the handle by his head and the back of the driver's seat.
Carlos laughed, "Relax. Even though the hardlight's lighter than air, it's tougher than concrete."
The driver added, "It would take something like an Endbringer to break this bridge."
Browbeat seemed to ease his grip and asked, "Why does it change color sometimes?
"It's meant to represent whatever's going on each month," Carlos explained. "Like in October the bridge is pink for breast cancer awareness, except for Halloween day, when it's orange. It's more for the city's citizens than us capes."
"Huh, I never paid much attention to it." Browbeat looked out again, "What's the teal mean for this month?"
"April is sexual assault awareness. We usually get an email each month telling us about it," Carlos answered and then added, "Said it'll be baby blue on the twenty-fourth for Easter. Last Easter it was a pastel yellow."
I put in, "I filter those worthless emails to the trash."
There was another checkpoint at the end of the bridge. This one was small and automated, just a Tinker-tech electric box that scanned people, even through vehicles, as they passed. It was situated at the edge of an invisible forcefield that detected 'things' that resembled people. The forcefield would emit an alert if a person passed through anywhere except at the checkpoint. There was another similar checkpoint on the building's roof for flyers and personnel arriving by helicopter. The PHQ was made to accommodate the Protectorate's capes, but there was also a full PRT staff on site. Guards, secretaries, maintenance, etc.
The driver drove back across the hardlight, Carlos took Browbeat around for a look at the building's facade, and I split away and made for the costume room on the second floor. As impressive as the outside architecture was, the inside was simply utilitarian and resembled a regular office building.
The costume room was a room with workbenches, tools, and materials for capes to maintain their costumes. In one corner was the Tinker-made automated dry cleaner.
I took my costume's bodysuit and cloak from my gym bag and dropped them in a chute. The chute went through the wall into another room where the cleaning parts were. When the garments were finished later, my things would eject along a ceiling track on a hanger along the edge of the room. I saw some of Miss Militia's fatigues waiting to be collected there.
I stowed my bags in my personal room and walked to the conference room. It was an oversized room situated at a corner on the fourth floor with a big oval glass table. The two exterior walls were entirely glass that was mirrored on the outside and could adjust the amount of light allowed in. Expensive office chairs that each had four levers for various adjustments ringed the table. This room was commonly featured in photographs with various heroes convening together.
Dean and Chris, Gallant and Kid Win, were present and out of costume. Clockblocker was wearing his suit without the helmet, and he was sitting in my favorite seat, the end chair opposite the table head.
"Sophia!" Dean halted his conversation with Chris when he saw me, and then I saw his surprise when he noticed my bruised face.
I ignored him. I knew he was trying to run interference. I stopped beside Clockblocker and waited for him to acknowledge me. He had his phone in his face and continued to pretend I wasn't there. I cleared my throat.
Dennis looked up at me with a shit eating grin, "Problem?" Then his eyes got big, and he slapped a hand over his mouth, "What the hell happened to your face!"
"My seat. Get out."
He tapped his chin and feigned a thoughtful look, "Hmm… don't think I will."
I'd consistently had dibs on that seat until a month ago. Dennis had sat there just by chance, and I made an, admittedly big, deal out of it. I had dumped him out of the chair and earned an ass chewing for it. Now he made an effort to always arrive early and take the seat. I wanted to slap the freckles off his face. Miss Militia came in at that moment with Carlos and the big blue dummy.
I got a pointed look from my superior that had me taking the nearest empty chair. Her gun wasn't in sight. When she was out of costume, Miss Militia tended to keep her powered weapon in the form of a small folding knife in her pocket. She took her place at the head of the table.
Militia made introductions for our new member, most everyone leaned across the table for a handshake or fistbump, and then mentioned our missing teammate, Vista, was out of town with her parents for the weekend. Then the previous week's crime statistics and the city's gang movements were discussed.
I only tuned in when the topic of my schedule came up so that I could note it in my phone. Free for the rest of Saturday, though I already knew that. Two assignments with Gallant, one each with Kid Win, Aegis, and Vista, and a post with Miss Militia. The schedule always took my track practices and competitions into account. Thursday was my next free day. And of course, even when off duty we were still on call in case something big happened.
Barring extenuating circumstances, Wards were always slotted to assignments in pairs or with a senior Protectorate member. Of the Wards team, I got along best with Gallant. Kid Win tended to be quiet and pensive on duty, which suited me fine. Aegis liked to talk but was content to have one-sided conversations. Vista was a little kid and would usually do whatever I told her. I considered myself lucky that I didn't get saddled with Browbeat this coming week. But it made sense that Militia wouldn't want to risk me scaring him off the team. And she knew better than to put me with Clockblocker.
Our division of the Protectorate was tied to the Parahuman Response Team East-Northeast department, of which Brockton Bay was the headquarters district of the East-Northeast region. Each regional division had its own PRT director and Protectorate captain. Armsmaster was our division's captain. Miss Militia was something of a second-in-command, even though it wasn't an official position. Of Brockton Bay's senior Protectorate members, those two spend the most time 'at home' while the others are frequently partitioned out to other cities within our region or assigned temporarily to other divisions.
The meeting concluded with some generic words of encouragement, and then the Wards filed out of the room. I went last, and Miss Militia stopped me at the door.
She pointed a finger to my eye. "What is this?" she quietly demanded.
I leaned away from her finger. "My face," I answered petulantly.
"Sophia," she warned and crossed her arms.
"It was an accident at track. I walked into somebody's swinging hand while they were warming up for the discus."
"Is that true?"
I huffed and showed my attitude, "I can give you my coach's cell. Call and ask him, and he'll tell you the same thing."
"Will your coach also tell me why you are showing your ass?"
I thought of an easy out. "I dropped first on the one hundred and two hundred yesterday."
"Because your face was hurting and distracting?"
I shrugged.
Her stern expression softened and she put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't fret over it. I know you're good enough to still qualify for your regional competition."
I didn't correct her that the New England regional came after the state meet. I also didn't tell her that my performance marks from previous track meets were already good enough to qualify me. I could botch every event for the rest of the season and still receive an invitation to compete at state.
"Thanks, Hannah."
Lying to her was simple, though I felt a bit guilty. It was easy because Hannah wanted to like me. Wanted to believe me. She was quick to climb my ass when I made trouble. But she was just as quick to dote on me, as much as the stoic Miss Militia could actually dote. She was that way with all the Wards, though I seemed to get more of it.
Hannah was from one of those craptastic places overseas where the people weren't shocked if a stray bomb blew up their neighbor. As far as I knew, her career from Ward to superhero had been nothing but praise and accolades. In fact, she was often referenced as the perfect hero, equal parts responsible, patriotic, and just. The two of us were not alike. A few more small words were exchanged, and she let me go. I went to my room.
The first floor had a small barracks for PRT soldiers when they had long shifts at the PHQ. Most of the third floor served as living quarters for Protectorate members. The north end was the females' dorm, south end was the males'. Each dorm had a large dormitory style bathroom. In the middle was a shared kitchen and living space. Every PRT aligned cape based in Brockton Bay had their own room here, regardless of how much they used it. I spent at least as much time here as I did my own home.
The room was small. With only a single bed, a small desk with matching nightstand, and an open wall-fitted wardrobe it was cramped. The door didn't lock, but there was a zero tolerance policy for messing with somebody's room. I had once planned to trash Dennis's room after one of our spats, but Dean had very helpfully dropped me a hint before I could carry out the sabotage.
I collected another bodysuit and cloak from my wardrobe. My costume was relatively simple, and I had three sets, but only one set of shin guards and bracers. And only the one mask. I had a few different belts and harnesses for my equipment that I could interchange as I liked, as well multiple pairs of gloves and boots. The simple stuff was very affordable with my PRT funded gear allowance, unlike Tinker-made mechanical armors. I had previously tried to abuse the requisition system to pocket some extra money, after all someone like Kid Win uses way more funds than I do. But Miss Militia had zoned in on the discrepancies quick. As Dennis had witnessed and recounted, it had been a 'legendary ass chewing'.
I settled in to do some homework in the pleasant atmosphere of my dorm. At noon I got a text from Emma.
"Then she tackled you to the floor and I was like holy fuck!" Emma was recounting her view of Friday's 'bathroom incident', as she had already taken to calling it. "And she kicked you in the face too!"
Emma took a sip of some kind of iced coffee, and then chased it with a sip of boba tea. She was deep into that kind of shit. We were at the boardwalk, sitting at a high table in a seating space that was shared by three cafes. I had my own boba because Emma had me hooked on it.
"You shooed me and Madison out," she continued, "and a little later we heard the scream. And you yelled something at her." She put both her palms flat on the table and leaned in. "So, what happened in there?"
"We fought." It was hard to think about. It was even harder to talk about, given that my pride had been wounded.
"You said 'we' as in she actually fought back?"
I gave her a pointed look, and Emma's eyes went to my puffy black eye. She knew better than to feel sorry for me, but I still saw the subtle look underneath. Pedestrians on the boardwalk were giving me similar sympathetic looks. I hated it.
"After you walked out, it was mostly just me wailing on her. Then I got her down and…" And then I did some weird shit. "And then I spit in her face-"
Emma cut in, "That's nasty, Soph."
"And I… choked her a little," I invented.
Any frivolity left Emma's voice, "That's psycho, Soph."
It's better than what actually happened.
"She deserved it for busting my face up," I asserted.
"Taylor disappeared after the lunch bell. I don't know if she ditched… or had to go to the hospital. You might have really hurt her."
I actually had not once considered Taylor's condition. Her midsection had taken several hard hits. And my bite had drawn blood. I remembered the thick taste mixed with sweet juice on her skin.
"She was standing when I left," I dismissed, "I was actually im-" and I cut myself off before I could say.
"Actually what? Impressed?" Emma leaned closer and whispered with a daring look, "Taylor Hebert stood toe-to-toe with, and impressed, the big bad Shadow Stalker?"
"I'll get her back," I said, then went to work on my boba.
"If you went full psycho on her with the spitting and choking, then I think you already got her back."
She was right. Fictitious spitting and choking aside, I knew that I had already taken my pound of flesh out of Taylor. And then some.
Emma continued, "Didn't know she had it in her. I gave up on her as a lost cause a long time ago."
"That's a weird thing to say."
Then Emma seemed surprised, like she had not fully intended to voice her thoughts. "You know, it's hard work always having to crush someone."
"It's our responsibility," I countered. Then added with conviction, "To remind the weak little people of just how low they really are." I didn't even think about what I was saying, it was so rehearsed.
"I mean that it's exhausting. You and I… victimized her because she already behaved like she was beat. She was stuck in a hole after her mom died, and we stopped her from climbing back up."
"She wasn't even trying to climb out of that hole. I remember you saying that."
"But what if she's trying now?" Emma motioned to my face, "I think your black eye is a good sign that she is."
My mouth opened and closed to say something several times. I wanted to yell at Emma. Tell her that she was being stupid. Taylor had fought me. I had given her a thrashing, and then she had shown a willingness to fight again. She survived.
"Regardless," Emma went on, "it sounds like Taylor's done being stepped on. Something in her snapped, and I bet she's willing to dish out more black eyes if we harass her again. You might find your thrills in bathroom brawling, but I don't."
I stated clearly, "I am not about to start being nice to her."
"You don't have to," Emma said hotly. "Just ease up for a little bit. See what happens, if she's actually different."
"Fine."
Emma trailed a hand through her red hair and whipped it sideways. It was something I knew she tended to do when she felt she had won an argument. And then I realized I was slightly relieved. Whatever had happened in that bathroom, I wasn't looking forward to it happening again. Keeping my distance from Taylor seemed as good a preventative as any.
Early Sunday patrol had been nice. Patrol mostly meant walking around the city and being visible to the public. It was good for marketing our cape image and for deterring criminals. We would respond to nearby crimes and emergency calls, just like any police officer on patrol.
The other scheduled assignments given to Wards were posts and reserves. Post was just a patrol without the walking; we stand in one area and act as a guard. Some posts were out in public and some were covert. Reserve duty just meant that we stayed at PHQ on standby and monitored communications with patrol and post groups.
My preferred assignment generally depended on my partner. Any assignment with Gallant was always good. An auxiliary effect of his powers let him sense emotions. Some people thought that sort of thing was creepy. I found it refreshing. He knew what to say and what not to say to avoid pissing me off.
Gallant had vented that day about his most recent troubles with his girlfriend, which I gave my full attention. I'm a girl. I like the gossip. Dean was also nice to look at. His girlfriend was a cape from an independent hero team in the city. She was a girly girl with a stupid cutesy name and a stereotype costume. But she could fight. She liked to fight. I'd occasionally seen her after dark, when I would go out on my own kind of patrols that were not strictly PRT approved. When she thought she was alone, she tended to be heavier handed with criminals than was strictly necessary. A girl after my own heart.
The problem about regular Wards assignments is that they didn't always scratch the itch. The itch to flex my powers. The itch to feel adrenaline. The itch to prowl. My recent frustrations only made the sensation more unbearable.
Late at night, many hours later, I suited up. First the black bodysuit. It was lightly padded in the torso, back, and thighs without restricting movement. My boots were just the standard PRT issued black boots. Black fingerless gloves of Miss Militia's favored brand. My shin guards and arm bracers were of a Tinker-made lightweight polymer that resembled steel in look and strength. The guards and bracers were painted a non-reflective black. A black nylon harness with utility pouches crossed over my shoulders and securely clipped at my waist. I had three different hooded cloaks that I circulated. This one had a black interior lining with a dark gray outer shell in a pattern that resembled wood grain. I tightly braided my hair in a long tail to keep it out of the way then applied basic blackout makeup around my eyes.
My first mask had been a simple hockey mask, the kind seen in old slasher films. After joining the Wards, public relations made me trash it, citing that a hero shouldn't resemble a horror movie villain. My PR approved mask was actually very nice. It was made from the Tinker polymer in the shape of a simplified woman's face. Her brow was tightened, mouth edges slightly turned down, and with faint laugh lines. It was painted a light gray that was hardly a shade darker than true white. The mask wouldn't look out of place in a silent theatre production. A retractable lens that would let me see condensed energy currents, or live wires, even through thin walls, was built in and activated by a small switch along the side.
My PRT regulated weapon was a crossbow. In black, of course. It was a compact fourteen inches long and light enough to wield in one hand, but disproportionately powerful thanks to being engineered in collaboration between Armsmaster and Kid Win. The limbs, purely for show without a bowstring, were collapsible for easy carrying and storage. The actual firing mechanism was an electromagnetic linear motor. I didn't really understand what that meant, but it was literally a handheld railgun disguised as a crossbow. The crossbow was better for public image, I was told. I had a duplicate backup and sometimes chose to carry both.
The ammunition bolts were six inches long with either a non-lethal blunt tip or an auto-injecting tranquilizer syringe. Five bolts could be loaded one at a time by hand or five at a time with reusable stripper clips.
My Ward phone was traceable by GPS, so only my old flip phone came on prowls. I clipped my crossbow to my harness belt then activated my power and left the confines of my bedroom and home. Shadow Stalker was on the hunt.
I ran down the street in darkness, kicked off the tarmac and activated my power at the same time. From a standstill, it was difficult to gain momentum in my Breaker state. If I activated it while already moving, it accelerated my momentum. So when I jumped off the road, I practically flew. I could cover large distances quickly by taking great leaps and activating my power at the right moment, and it expended very little energy. Just as I would touch down I'd shut my power off, then take another few steps and jump away again.
I made it to a commercial area and mounted the roofs there in the same fashion. Then I was flying from rooftop to rooftop. The wind flew by my body. In shadow form, the wind flew through my body. The faster I moved the better it felt. It was the most freeing feeling. Nothing could hold me down.
While running, I had kept an eye out for action, and I think I had some. I stopped on the roof of a liquor store that had already closed for the night. Down at street level and across the way was an old dilapidated gas station that had gone out of business. A gathering of five bodies were there.
It was very dark, and I could only make out minor details from the glow of a smartphone being passed around the group. The collective attitude seemed light. From their tones and the few words that I could pick up from a distance, I gathered that the woman was a whore and had already serviced two of the guys, presumably in the rundown gas station. The other two guys doing the pimping might have been Merchants, or just unaffiliated scum.
Their business wrapped up, the whore and her guys walked down another dark street, and the two customers walked the other way and came close to the light put off by the liquor store's window displays. They both had buzz cuts, and on one, I might have seen a small '88' tattoo on the side of the head. These skinheads had traveled far north of their established territory just to get their dicks wet.
They weren't doing anything illegal or troublesome that I could readily prove, but I didn't give a fuck. No, that they were even in my path and breathing was trouble enough. I had my targets.
Like all people who thought they were big tough thugs, the two men preferred to take the alleyways over the better illuminated sidewalks. My anticipation kept me from waiting long. I dropped to the ground and approached them from behind. The man on the left took a blunt crossbow shot to the back of the knee and went down. His buddy turned and shouted something in panic when he saw me charging. I ran, jumped, shadowed, kicked out, then shifted back to flesh. It was a fast flying kick to his chest. It knocked him down, and instead of allowing myself to rebound and fall to the ground, I just reformed myself standing up.
The first guy was just figuring out the situation from where he had fallen, and he dove and very briefly latched onto my ankle with both hands. I just stepped out of his hold with my power then stomped on the back of his head a couple times. The other guy was up.
"Shit, shit, what the fuck!" He was backing away and trying to dig something out of his pants pocket, probably a blade, maybe a gun.
I disappeared into the shadows and reappeared behind him. I swung a mid height roundhouse kick and my reinforced shin collided with his arm at the elbow while it fished in a pocket. If he had been a scrawny guy, the kick might have really done some damage, maybe torn or ruptured a ligament. But his arm was thickly muscled. Still must've hurt like hell.
He yelled and turned to face me. I made a 'come on' gesture and hoped he wouldn't run. Bless him. He tried to fight. I let him.
He wasn't inexperienced; all Empire Eighty-Eight goons knew how to rumble. My opponent swung several times and I took each blow on my guard, letting him batter his hands against my hard arm bracers. He was a big adult man, and though his strikes on my raised arms pushed me around, they did not get through and hurt me. Then he loaded up a big right hook, and I slipped into shadow state and let him swing through me so that he overextended and stumbled off balance. In the same instant I reformed behind his right shoulder and smashed my armored elbow into his ear.
One of his arms flailed and managed to collide with my face. I had to readjust my mask to see. In that small time he was reaching out with both hands like he intended to throttle my neck. I stepped in and slammed my masked forehead into his mouth. Not the best idea. It made me dizzy. But he staggered back holding his bloody mouth. I kicked him in the groin, and when he bent forward holding himself and grunting, I kicked him in the head. Done.
The first guy whose head I had stepped on was just now trying to stand up. I ejected the remaining blunt tips from my crossbow and put in a single tranquilizer. Shot him. Lights out.
For a full minute I just stood still and breathed. My nerves were wired. It was at times like this when I especially felt that the world was making sense. Predator and prey. Winner and loser. Me and the rest.
I searched their pockets. "How are those superior genetics working out for you boys?" Phones, wallets, a knife each, cigarettes, keys, some change, and a rolled up granola bar wrapper hiding a bunch of small tablet pills. Maybe these two had done some business of their own at the gas station.
Ecstasy, acid, I had no idea what they were, but I forced three down each of the skinheads' throats then tucked the rest back in the owner's pocket. If they even remembered this beating, or survived it, they'd probably think they imagined it. I emptied the wallets of a couple hundred dollars, collected my discharged ammunition, and left.
A detour. There was a factory that manufactured tape not very far from the hardlight bridge checkpoint. On the roof was a chain fence enclosure with a corrugated metal awning overhead. Enclosed were some electrical and ventilation implements with control panels. The fence gate was locked with a chain, but I easily walked through it with my power. I was after a large maintenance cabinet. The cabinet was locked, but I shook the handle and the door came open. Shoved in the back corner of a shelf, behind a ten gallon bucket full of wires, was a black duffel bag. My stash.
In it were some knives that I sometimes carried on my late night prowls, as well as crossbow bolts with serrated broadhead tips. It hadn't been difficult to find some hunting arrows at a sporting goods store and swap the lethal tips onto my smaller bolts. Also in the bag were a change of clothes, nonperishable snacks, and a bunch of cash that had been liberated from less deserving pockets. I kept a similar stash close to my house.
Tied to the bag's handle was a tag note that I had written long ago.
If you fuck with my shit, I will find you.
It seemed to work. That the chains and locks on the gate were never removed, and the maintenance equipment never stolen or damaged, probably lent a sense of professionalism to the warning. I'd had this stash since before I joined the Wards, and it had never been bothered. The building's maintenance man was sufficiently cowed or just indifferent.
I checked that everything was in order then deposited my latest earnings. Occasionally I would buy things. Anything that showed up at home would alert my mom, but a few things at my PHQ room wouldn't raise suspicions. And I kept a small, but really nice selection of clothes at Emma's house in her oversized closet. If anyone that could get me in trouble asked about the clothes, I could just say that they belonged to my best friend. And I always had pocket money to do things around town.
My flip phone started buzzing. A call past midnight was strange. I slid it out of a pouch and checked the small display. There was no name or number shown. The little display was lit up but completely blank. It continued its vibrate ringing while I pondered the bizarre call, and it eventually timed out. Then a single buzz: a text.
Colin. Answer.
"What the fuck!" I hissed.
I only knew two Colins. There was Mr. Colin, my freshman geometry teacher from last year… and there was Colin… aka Armsmaster.
I was on patrol, except that I wasn't supposed to be on patrol, and nobody was supposed to know I was on patrol. That was the reason for leaving my Ward issued phone at home, so I couldn't be monitored. It shouldn't be possible to track my shitty flip phone. All the villains used them for just that reason.
My phone buzzed a call again with an illuminated blank display. Fucking Tinkers. He'd be beyond pissed if I didn't answer again. I hit the button to accept the call, and a muffled motorcycle roar and Armsmaster's clipped voice greeted me.
"Reports of explosions and fire. Apartment buildings just over one mile north of your current position. My ETA is six minutes forty-nine seconds."
The call dropped.
Shit.
There was nothing for it now. Armsmaster expected me to reach the scene and assess the situation before he arrived. That call had also served as a passive-aggressive 'you're busted'. I took off at a sprint.
An Olympic male runner can do a mile in a little less than four minutes. Dashing along the unlevel rooftops with my power, I could cover a mile in about two, with significantly less fatigue. The direction was taking me to the edge of ABB territory. Asian Bitch Boys.
Halfway to my destination I could see an orange glow coming up from between some buildings in the distance. The description of explosions and fire, as well as the gang territory, had me forming a guess as to what, or who, I would encounter. Armsmaster hadn't mentioned any firefighter response, so it probably wouldn't be an ignited gas leak.
Upon approach, I slowed down and heard distorted, bestial roars. Definitely Lung. And it sounded like he'd already transformed. From there I exclusively moved forward in my shadow form, so that I was completely silent. Everyone knew that Lung got super hearing when he powered up. I stopped on the raised edge of a building and looked down.
There was Lung. Just Lung. And a lot of wrecked shit. When he came into my view, he had just given up on melting a dumpster with his fire. A light pole was knocked over, a couple crappy cars were roasting, and surrounding walls were scorched black. There were a few ABB grunts cowering in the fetal position. Lung himself was at an advanced level of transformation.
I dropped my powered form for a better look around; the shadow state tended to slightly blur my vision, the effect of which varied depending on how scattered I made myself. Still just Lung. I didn't see Oni Lee or the newest ABB cape, a bomb maker called Bakuda. Lung himself had already grown in height and bulk, and around half his body was sheathed in his metallic armor. The claws on his hands were flexing and enlarging even as I watched, and he was maintaining a dancing shroud of flames around himself. He briefly looked up to scan the tops of the buildings around his position. I figured I was near invisible against the backdrop of the night sky and held still. His pivoting gaze swept over my position and kept going.
If I was lucky, Lung had overdosed and was suffering a bad trip, and any second would drop dead of cardiac arrest. But I doubted it. I couldn't do anything to Lung while he was transformed like this. But I was more than confident that I could get away if he caught wind of me. I needed to put some distance between myself and the monster, and then notify Armsmaster that we were dealing with Lung. As I was about to reactivate my power and jump away, something caught my attention. No more than ten feet away was a pair of reflective yellow orbs looking right at me.
My power activated on instinct and I readied my crossbow. Discipline stayed my hand from firing at what I now recognized as a person. A cape. She wore a dark full-body suit with strange textures that I couldn't make out in the darkness. The yellow orbs had been yellow lenses over the eyes of her mask. Curly dark hair came out the back of her mask. The whole getup had a sinister look. Pretty cool.
She was crouched low at the edge of the roof and offered me a small wave. I dropped my power and gave a silent nod back. I supposed she could have snuck up here under the cover of Lung's ruckus, but more likely that she had been here before me and her suit blended into the night. Glad she hadn't been hostile.
This must have been a new cape on the block because I didn't recognize her. And I made a habit of studying up on all the players in Brockton Bay. Maybe she had antagonized Lung and frenzied him with a power. I thought of Lung indiscriminately shooting off fire down below without any real target. Perhaps a Stranger/Shaker power that worked at range? Whatever the case, it wasn't enough, because Lung was only getting bigger and badder by the minute. As I held her attention, I pointed at Lung then made a 'cut it out' motion by sweeping my fingers back and forth by my neck.
The mystery cape nodded in understanding. Then she held a hand palm up and walked her other hand across it on two fingers. Then pointed at the back end of the roof where there was a fire escape.
I violently shook my head, but she had already looked away and started for the other side of the roof. There was gravel on the leveled center of the roof. I didn't hear the gravel crunch. But Lung sure as hell did. The building we were on shook as Lung impacted the side and started climbing up. I faded and leapt away to the next roof.
It was nice knowin' ya, genius.
On the next roof was a metal HVAC unit that I took cover behind. Back on the first roof, the mystery cape hadn't much moved and instead crouched and held something small out at arm's length in front of her. Lung crested the roof then, and she sprayed him in the face with what must have been pepper spray.
Huh. Who'd have thought something so mundane would work on Lung? And it didn't just work, it worked well. Lung screamed.
The cape turned and made a dash for the fire escape but was knocked off her feet when Lung sent a wild wave of fire over the roof. She rolled over and covered herself as another short wave of fire rolled over her. Apparently she, or her suit, was at least partially flame resistant because she never spasmed or yelled under the blaze.
Lung must have still been feeling the effects of the pepper spray because he didn't immediately follow up. Instead he swept his head around the roof like he couldn't see his target. But he stalked forward at the same time. If he didn't spot the prone cape, then he would certainly trip over her.
Great, here we go.
I fired a blunt tip. It harmlessly bounced off the armor on Lung's neck, but it had the intended effect. He turned and launched a torrent of fire across the empty space in my direction. I ducked behind the blocky HVAC unit and let the fire rush by. Then I ran, kicked off the roof and darted to a different building with my power.
When I looked back at Lung, it was just in time to see a big quadruped monster tackle him off the roof. The two crashed down to street level and began a struggle.
Up on the first roof, two more monsters landed next to the mystery cape. The four riders that dismounted from the creatures were recognizable. They were the Undersiders, a villain group of capes, though they weren't a whole gang. Nevertheless, they had proven effective and elusive on many small jobs around the city, causing trouble for both the Protectorate and the gangs. The big ugly things were dogs that were mutated by one of the villain's powers. The two dogs on the roof jumped down to join the fight. I kept myself out of sight.
The Undersiders had a short, and seemingly one sided, conversation with my mystery cape while spectating the fight below. The ruckus of the monster brawl below prevented me from hearing. Unbelievably, Lung was getting duly handled by the trio of mutated dogs. He was mostly limp now, and the dogs were tugging on him like a giant toy.
The dogmaster, Hellhound, whistled and the dogs climbed back to the roof. The four Undersiders mounted up and fled the scene, leaving just me, a seemingly unconscious Lung, and an unknown cape.
Then Armsmaster very conveniently arrived. I leapt down right in front of him as he dismounted his motorcycle. If he was startled he didn't show it.
"Report," he barked, and then started for Lung's unmoving form after withdrawing his trademark halberd from a retractable receptacle on his bike.
I wasn't going to get an ass chewing. Yet. Not while Armsmaster was in business mode. I told him everything: detailing my arrival, Lung's strange behavior, my brief interaction with and observation of the new cape, and the Undersiders' involvement. There was no point in trying to embellish my participation in the fight. The Tinker bastard could smell lies. As I reported, Armsmaster had taken some rebar-like rods from another compartment on the bike and fixed them to the ground and over Lung with a welding attachment on his halberd.
"There she is," I pointed up at the rooftop where yellow eyes were looking down at us from the edge.
Armsmaster spoke quietly to not be overheard, "What do you make of her?"
I shrugged, "She's still here. Didn't run away. No idea what her powers are, but I think she must've had something to do with Lung's condition when I got here."
"She looks like a villain."
"So do I." I held my arms out to my sides to make a point of showing off my dark villainous costume.
He pointed at Lung, "Tranq him. I'm going to collect a statement from our new friend." Then Armsmaster scaled the building with one his halberd's alternate gadgets.
I approached Lung, who had completely devolved to his human form, and kicked at one of his legs. No movement. I took a tranquilizer bolt in my hand and stuck him in the thigh with it. This was the closest I'd ever been to such a big name bad guy. He was tall for a man, but not remarkably so. Tattoos of dragons, some shitty and some very high quality, covered all of his muscled torso and arms. Fortunately, his pants had mostly survived his transformation, as did his metal mask. The few gang members that were present when I first arrived had long since scurried away.
I climbed back up to an adjacent roof and saw Armsmaster talking to the cape. His halberd cast a light like a lamp to make them both easily visible. I positioned myself out of the way and where I could watch those two, as well as see Lung where he snored and keep an eye on the direction the Undersiders had retreated in. Just in case the villain team decided to come back.
At my distance, I heard Armsmaster's strong voice and the other cape's softer voice, but could only deduce their conversation's inflection and not the words. He seemed to be drilling her at first but lightened up as the conversation continued. I could get a better look at her now; she looked about as tall as me and had a thin frame. A teenager most likely. They finished talking, and Armsmaster was apparently satisfied because he let her go. The girl cape halted before descending the fire escape stairs, and for a second, she was frozen. Then she turned in my direction and waved directly at me. From my perch on an adjacent rooftop I knew that I must have been as good as invisible. She was probably showing off her powers, whatever they were. I smirked behind my mask. It was something that I would have done too, were I in her place.
I returned to Armsmaster where he was securing Lung on the back of his motorcycle.
"You tranqed him?" he asked me.
I nodded.
He poked Lung's leg. "Better make it a double."
I stabbed a second tranquilizer in Lung's arm. "How did the talk go with…" I made vague hand movements.
"First night in costume, she doesn't even have a name yet. Confirmed she isn't a villain, no connection with the Undersiders. Has fine control over bugs, spiders, and the like within a large radius."
I was more than a little irritated to realize she must have had a bug or two crawling on me. It made me immediately want to pat myself down and shake out my cloak, but I refused to break composure like that in front of my superior.
He had asked her what had transpired and her role in it. Apparently she had been on site from the beginning and initiated the conflict. Without backup. She must have balls or shit-for-brains to have started a fight with Lung.
I mused, "What will we call her in the meantime? Flea? Tick? Pissant?"
"I wouldn't mock her if I were you. She pushed Lung to his limit." He fixed me with a look and, for several seconds, didn't say anything.
I stood a little straighter. Here it comes.
"It's well past midnight. Go home and go to sleep. You have school tomorrow."
Exhale. There it was. I knew he was my favorite. No nonsense. Cool motorcycle. Swiss army halberd. Armsmaster demanded excellence. So long as my performance met his expectations, which it always did, and so long as I was never blatantly caught, he didn't feel compelled to punish a little rule breaking.
"Wipe your mask off, Shadow Stalker." With that, he mounted his bike and departed.
I took my mask off and turned it over. On the forehead was a smeared blood splatter. A few drops speckled the nose and cheeks. I'd get it later.