Chapter 11
I woke up to the shrill default ringtone of my PRT provided phone what felt like minutes after falling asleep. It rang a second time while I was feeling around blindly for it, before I found it and my glasses on top of the dresser next to my bed.
I checked the time. One twenty-three. That couldn't be good.
"Hello?"
"This is Miss Militia. We have an emergency. Could you please join us in room 307 ASAP?"
"What kind of emergency?" I asked.
"Just come to the meeting room and we'll talk about it in person," she said before hanging up.
I rose from the bed, stretching, and began removing my pajamas for my temporary costume and domino mask. Once I was dressed, I exited the room.
Two rooms down the corridor, the door opened as I passed, revealing Clockblocker, wearing his helmet and blue pajamas. He was caucasian, I noted. Pale and freckled.
"I heard something about an emergency. What's going on?"
"No idea. They'll call you if they need you, I'm sure."
"Right."
He retreated into his room and closed the door.
As I made my way to room 307, I began gathering bugs outside the building, just in case.
What kind of emergency would demand my immediate attention in the middle of the night, but not the other Wards'? I swallowed past the lump in my throat at the thought that it had something to do with my dad. Had Coil or Shadow Stalker gotten to him despite the protective custody? I would never forgive myself if that were the case.
On the third floor, the elevator's doors opened to a flurry of agents running around, and I made my way to the meeting room.
There, I found the usual suspects: Miss Militia, Armsmaster, Legend, and Director Piggot. A handful of PRT agents were also present, most busy with phones or laptops. Two people stood out to me. A black woman with short hair, who wore a dramatic fuchsia flounced blouse with matching pants, and an obese man with rectangular glasses and hair gelled into a pseudo-mohawk, wearing an ill-fitting blue and yellow flannel with clashing red pants.
"What is going on?" I asked, closing the door behind me.
"An anonymous party we believe to be Coil has leaked Shadow Stalker's actions, in and out of costume," answered Director Piggot.
"In and out…"
"Yes. Her vigilante work behind our back, using lethal ammunition, with testimonies from several of her alleged victims. Several unresolved deaths are also being attributed to her. The bullying campaign against you is documented through her own text messages, pictures and videos. The incident of January third too. They openly say that the victim gained powers and became Skitter. Her actions at the hospital are backed by an internal memo, an interview with an anonymous agent from the squad who was sent after her, and the interrogation and firing of her handler, meaning that we still have spies in our ranks."
I swallowed, trying to soothe the dryness of my throat. I'd been horrified when Armsmaster managed to dig up my trigger event at the hospital, the thought of him having an opinion about it making me nauseous, and now, the whole world could find out?
"How compromised is my identity?" I asked.
"We're doing our best to bury it, and had the original post removed, but it's already been picked up by several news stations, and even if they blurred the names and faces, people who witnessed those events will probably be able to connect the dots to you. I'm sorry."
"At the hospital, you said you were talking with Tattletale," said Miss Militia. "What did you tell her, exactly?"
"I just told her to stand by in case I needed her. I didn't say anything about Shadow Stalker."
Then I realized, she was probably able to decipher the message hidden behind my bugs, that Shadow Stalker had broken the truce and attacked a villain on their hospital bed.
"She might have been able to figure it out anyways. That's kind of her thing."
"Which is why we believe Coil to be the culprit," said Director Piggot. "He had the motive and the opportunity, as well as the most to gain from this."
"Why am I here?" I asked.
"We need to do damage control," said Piggot. "Tomorrow morning, at eight sharp, Armsmaster is publicly stepping down as head of the local Protectorate, which we're framing as a response to the current scandal. We're announcing that Shadow Stalker is now a wanted fugitive and ensuring that everyone knows she will pay for breaking the Endbringer truce. You're making your official debut as a Ward, because having you visibly by our side, after you were identified as Shadow Stalker's victim, will help distance us from her actions. Which leaves us less than seven hours to create your new identity and costume. This is Maureen Collins, the local head of Image, and Glenn Chambers, head of Image for the PRT as a whole."
The fat man offered me a firm handshake, followed by the woman in fuchsia.
"Let's go to my office," she said, one arm guiding me to the door.
I followed her to a room down the corridor, Glenn in tow.
Plastered on the inside were posters of the local heroes and Wards, all smiling and with bright colors in the background. Soon, I would join them. The thought wasn't comforting at all.
Glenn offered me a chair before sitting down next to Maureen at her desk.
"First, let's talk about image as a whole," he said. "What we're doing here isn't just create a costume and a name. We're writing a story, one we need the public to buy wholesale, and for that, every detail of the story needs consistency. In this case, this is a story of finding the courage to do the right thing when confronted with a life or death situation."
"I'm not sure what this has to do with anything."
"Usually, we don't advertise the fact that we hire former villains. In this case, we want the public to know exactly who you used to be, and give them a compelling enough reason to root for you as a hero. We have cellphone footage and testimonies of you fighting Leviathan one on one to get him away from civilians, and we're going to leverage those into your new image."
"Alright, so I decided to do the right thing. Now what?"
"Now, we need to find a marketable way to present your power. Let's see… Maureen, I believe you had some moodboards ready?"
Maureen turned her computer screen so I could see.
The first one was a collage of stock images of butterflies. I had to forcibly unclench my jaw to talk.
"Director Costa-Brown agreed to give me veto rights about my image," I stated.
"Ah, yes, she warned me about that, said Glenn. "Something wrong with butterflies?"
"It's just not very… me."
Maureen switched to another moodboard, this one ladybug themed.
"The name Ladybug is already taken by the show Love Bug. I wouldn't want to be named or associated with a cartoon character."
"What about sea life?" Asked Glenn. "I've read in your file that you can control some crustaceans."
Not the Seafood Avenger, I thought, but answered: "No. They need to breathe water, so it would be too impractical in the field."
Maureen skipped a moodboard about seashells and starfishes, to one with various iridescent beetles.
"That would make for nice colors," said Glenn. I'm thinking iridescent armored pieces over a black bodysuit, with a visor."
"Does it have to be themed around a specific bug?" I asked. "And what does it mean for the use of my power? Can I still use the full extent of my swarm?"
"Absolutely not. No biting or stinging, and no more amorphous mass of bugs for you. I've heard tales of you terrorizing some poor office workers during your power testing."
"I didn't mean to. They told me to gather a swarm and bring it to the lab, so I did. The elevator was just a convenient way to do it."
Would they restrict me to only use my thematic bug? If so, I didn't want beetles, ladybugs or butterflies. I needed something better, more versatile, but still image-friendly.
"How about bees?"
"Bees?"
"They're cute. Fluffy. Hard working. Essential to our food chain. They only sting at the cost of their lives. Sometimes they drift to a different colony, but they're accepted because of the nectar and pollen they carry. It makes for a nice metaphor."
And no one would notice if a few hornets were mixed in the lot.
Glenn rubbed his chin. I continued.
"We could set up hives around the city and on the rooftop of the PRT HQ, so I would always have a supply on hand. I could make honey too."
"Alright. I'm a sucker for a good metaphor. Maureen?"
"I got you," she said, skipping to another moodboard, this time with honeycombs, bees and hives, all in golden yellow tones.
"I like it," declared Glenn. "PRT branded honey! Food is intimate, and people always want to be closer to their heroes. Your logo could be a honeycomb! We could make bee plushies! You can champion the cause of biodiversity!"
"How does that last one has anything to do with —"
"Maureen, get started on some sketches," Glenn ordered her, ignoring me.
In the end, the costume we agreed on was a black bodysuit with golden yellow armored pieces over it, and a short black dress with three horizontal bands of yellow, as well as a yellow honeycomb emblem on the chest, and black gloves. The mask was the same golden yellow as the armored pieces, looking like a stylized bee face, with large black compound eyes, two antennas, and black mandibles framing the jaw.
They initially wanted part of my face to be visible, to be more personable, but I vetoed it, calling it a safety issue. Besides, I told them, that way the mask was a response to my old mask, with the colors reversed. Metaphor.
Thus began the creation of my new costume.
First, Maureen made me try on different models of blank masks with foam cushioning it on the inside, until we found the one that fit the best. Then, using the same model as a base, she made a 3D rendering of the mask she'd designed on her computer, and took note of my glasses' prescription before sending a rush order to someone in New York to make it and have it delivered by helicopter before the eight AM deadline.
After that, we went down to the armory. There, I was outfitted with a black bodysuit, armored boots, and various pieces of armor over my legs, arms, shoulders, torso and hips. We brought the lot back to the room adjacent to Maureen's office, a craft room with large worktables and rolls of fabric and various materials. There, she spray-painted the armor and boots the appropriate golden yellow, then began taking my measurements for the dress. The armor over my midsection and hips would go beneath the dress, both for protection and to change my silhouette.
While Maureen was working on the dress, Glenn went back to the meeting room, to work on the speeches.
I couldn't help but wonder how Armsmaster was feeling about being made into the convenient fall-guy. How much control did he even have over the Wards? From what I'd seen, it seemed to be Piggot's jurisdiction rather than his. Whose oversight had allowed for Sophia to slip through the cracks?
I wanted to be angry at them for it, like I had been upon realizing Shadow Stalker's identity, but Coil's plan cast a shadow on my anger. Being angry at them now would only serve his purposes, which would ultimately help him keep Dinah.
Instead, I directed my anger at Coil, for weaponizing the bullying and my trigger event.
How did he even know it was my trigger event? Had the Undersiders betrayed my trust and shared that tidbit of information with him? Had Tattletale assisted him with her power in digging up the dirt on Sophia at my expense?
I didn't know how to feel about that.
To me, it had been obvious even as I joined the Wards that I wouldn't betray what I knew about the Undersiders. Had they not extended the same courtesy to me? Or did they think I had betrayed them? That I had revealed their names, the location of the loft, and the countless other details I had picked up about them in the course of a month? Was Brian at his apartment, or did he fear that the PRT would swoop in and take his sister like they had with Purity's baby?
Maureen arrived with two pieces of black fabric sewn together at the shoulders, and made me try it on so she could pin the sides.
"There'll be a zip at the back, don't worry," she said when I experimentally tugged at the fabric. It was the same stretchy black fabric as the bodysuit.
"I'm not worried," I answered. "I'm wondering if I could eventually make one out of spidersilk."
"Right, Lanaro showed me your costume before they took it to the lab to test the material. You made that yourself?"
"Me and a few thousands black widow spiders."
"Now that, I couldn't do. Spiders just spook me. Looking forward to the raw material, but don't blame me if I don't visit your workshop anytime soon."
"It's fine. I don't expect to have many visitors." Or any at all, except maybe Mark.
"Still, that was a pretty good costume, for a first attempt. Dark and edgy, but good."
"I didn't mean for it to come off that way," I admitted. "But I was more than halfway done when I realized it, and I didn't want to start over."
"Ideas and sketches are one thing, but the execution always turns up different than on paper. Trust me, I know what that's like. What did you make the mask out of?"
"Silk reinforced with chitin to shape it, with lenses from swimming goggles and an old pair of glasses."
She nodded absentmindedly as she finished pining the sides of the dress, then took a step back to look at me.
"One minute, dear," she said, exiting the room.
She came back a moment later with Glenn.
He took one look at me, then turned to Maureen.
"Give her more of a waist, to give the illusion of hips and change the silhouette. Think more A-line than shift dress."
Maureen dutifully set to making the changes, until Glenn gave his approval, then he left again for the meeting room.
Maureen helped me take off the pinned dress, then brought it to the sewing machine in the corner. While she was sewing, I thought back to my promise to work on spidersilk costumes for the Undersiders. With everything that had happened, I never really got started on it, but it didn't matter. We weren't a team anymore. The fact that they were willing to let Coil keep Dinah trumped anything I might feel about them. The fact that they had apparently shared my trigger event and details of my life with him was only the cherry on top.
Maybe it was out of spite for their apparent betrayal, but it gave me an idea.
I waited for the roar of the sewing machine to lull before asking Maureen:
"You must have the other Wards' measurements on file, right?"