"So," Sophia drawled, "karaoke first and now Chinese. We celebrating the end of the ABB or something?"

Greg had the good sense to flush. "Uh, nothing so well-planned. I found this place first and I'd really been wanting Chinese for a while. Then I found the karaoke place and thought it'd be a good time."

And it had indeed been a good time. After shaking off the heavy emotions they'd all gotten into more lighthearted fare, even managing to persuade Taylor into belting out the 10,000 Maniacs version of Because the Night. By the end the group was all smiles, even the corners of Taylor's wide mouth were slightly upturned.

"Your entire life is a series of coincidences," Sophia sniped with no real heat.

"There's something to be said for being narratively apropos," Taylor murmured.

"You run into that a lot?" Greg asked, and there seemed to be a level of gravitas to his question.

Taylor nodded silently and Greg mirrored her shortly after, as if filing away a revelation granted him by an oracle.

The trio ambled up to the hostess for the Rainbow Sky Palace, a roundish middle-aged woman with dull red hair. "Good, uh, afternoon, I guess," Greg stumbled over his words a little. "Do you have space for the three of us?"

"We'll take the booth in the back." Taylor's voice was quiet and not at all confrontational, her gaze flat rather than threatening. But something in her behavior made it certain that there would be no other outcome.

To her credit, the hostess rallied and quickly ushered them to Taylor's choice location. The taller girl took the seat to rest her back against the wall, spreading out to claim the entire booth and thereby forcing Greg and Sophia to share the other side. Anticipating her restlessness, Greg slid in first and let Sophia have the outer section of the booth.

After taking their drink orders to pass off to their waitress (Greg ordered a Dr Pepper, Sophia an orange juice, Taylor simply requested water), the hostess departed.

The group sat in brief but somewhat companionable silence until Greg broke it. "So Taylor, how's your dad been?"

"He should be discharged this week," Taylor replied smoothly, casually.

"Shit, he's still in the hospital?" Greg now looked concerned, leaning forward.

Taylor gently waved off his concerns. "He took a head injury during the incursion. Panacea otherwise patched him up, but she doesn't do brains. The hospital wanted to make sure he wouldn't be in danger upon leaving. He's fine," she finished with a calm certainty.

Sophia looked down at the table, feeling like the odd woman out. She all too often felt like a stranger in her own home, her mother treating her like a burden. She had so little in common with her baby sister…

As if reading her thoughts – shit, she might actually be able to do that, Sophia suddenly thought – Taylor spoke up again. "I'll need to talk with him. I've been...avoiding him, not wanting to talk about things. He doesn't know, about any of it. I didn't want to give him that pain. But after the riot…"

"You'll at least need to explain how you got ripped," Greg piped up. Taylor pointed at him to confirm his statement.

"I've only met your mom, Greg, and I don't know much about your dad," Taylor admitted.

He gave a quick chuff of half-laughter. "I would've figured you had a full dossier on me."

"I certainly could," there was no hint of humor in her pleasant tone, "but I figured it would be more honest to simply ask."

Greg shrugged and nodded. "Well, my old man's in aerospace engineering. Works for Lockheed and helps design jet engines. He has to go out to conferences with all sorts of other people, so we don't see him too often."

"Your dad works for Lockheed?" Sophia turned to look at the brunet. "Why the fuck are you slumming it at Winslow?"

"He makes enough that Mom doesn't have to work, but not enough to also afford Immaculata's tuition. Plus," Greg's ears turned red as he fought to suppress his embarrassment, "I just didn't take school seriously enough to get into Arcadia. But, well," he looked between his companions. "Maybe things happen for a reason."

Sophia glanced over at Taylor as if to ask if she could believe what Greg was saying, but found Taylor's expression one of quiet contemplation.

Finally Taylor spoke up. "They do their best for you, right?"

Greg blinked. "I, uh, I guess? Mom keeps things together and Dad's good when he's around. I know he wishes he could be with us more often but his job keeps him moving and we might lose the house if he tried to get something more stable…"

"And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said, 'Stick to the Devil you Know'," Taylor quoted smoothly. At two uncomprehending faces, she continued. "It's Kipling. It means, unless things are intolerable, it's usually better to keep to something wherein you know the possible outcomes rather than something where you have no idea what might happen."

Those hazel eyes swept over Sophia next, but were interrupted by the waitress' appearance. She took their orders (Taylor ordered Mongolian beef, Greg selected sweet-and-sour pork, Sophia had the General Tso's chicken) and departed. Once the woman was far enough away, Taylor continued as though her train of thought had never been interrupted.

"What's your home life like, Sophia?"

She knew the question was coming. It still felt like being stripped bare in a blizzard. Sophia tried not to hunch in on herself. "...Not the best," she finally admitted.

Taylor's gaze was flat. Not judging, not hostile, not...anything. Sophia couldn't bring herself to see what might flicker in Greg's eyes.

"My mom, we've been distant for a long time. My dad died when Mom was pregnant with my little sister. Got killed by some strung-out criminal." She let out a heavy sigh. "She dates on occasion, but nobody ever sticks around." Her fingers reflexively clutched the table, gripping it white-knuckled. No-one made mention of it, nor did anyone call out her falsehood.

"When I was a vigilante, I took what cash I could get off crooks and used it to buy groceries and shit like that." She couldn't safely deposit it in the family account without getting questions she really didn't want to answer, after all. Nor did she entirely trust her mother to use a sudden windfall responsibly, considering the woman's taste in men. "I don't know what Thinkers they have on staff, but that's how they dragged me in. Maybe I could've gotten away, maybe I could've kept doing this. But they promised to help pay the family bills…"

"In a place like Brockton Bay, it makes sense that they'd take anyone and find the best bait to bring you in," Taylor drawled. "It's always better to have more meat for the grinder than to simply remove a problem actor. But I doubt it's policy to cover up curricular activities." Her eyes locked with Sophia's, conveying far more information than her words could by themselves.

Ordinarily, Sophia would have rejected such an assertion, reflexively and immediately declared (if not in so many words) that she was important and valuable enough to justify whatever was involved in the coverup – and that's if she acknowledged there was a coverup at all. Now, sitting across from possibly the most powerful cape on the planet, maybe barring Scion if he counted, Sophia couldn't make that argument even to herself.

She had to pause, and consider. Why had she been permitted to act with such impunity?

She was still pondering when their food arrived.

(BREAK)

The meal was a quiet affair, making light comments about the quality of the food. Greg, having been around some of his father's military-man friends, made note of how the girls ate. Sophia ate like a recruit, devouring her food almost too fast to taste it. Taylor, on the other hand, reminded him of a horror movie. Or maybe a thriller would be the better comparison: she ate calmly, shoulders back, sitting up straight with perfect posture. Everything was an exact imitation of humanity, and none of it felt genuine.

Greg didn't know when it'd happened, but at some point Sophia's hip had come to rest against his. He did his best not to blush.

Once they were finished, Taylor picked up the check for all of them, paying in cash. She pocketed the change and they were off.

Greg lived in a suburban complex just on the western side of the mountains, and since Sophia was in no hurry to get home she volunteered to ride with him to his place – then she and Taylor would return back to the city proper so Sophia could go home. Nobody was stupid enough to question if Taylor could make it home safely. Greg called home ahead of time, and his father was set to pick him up from the bus stop.

When the bus' brakes squealed, the brunet stood and took in a deep breath. His eyes moved across both girls' lovely faces. "Well, this was a nice time. We should...we should do it again." Too awkward to think of anything else to say, he left before his dad got nervous.

And then Sophia was alone with Taylor.

"It's time for you to tell me," Taylor spoke softly.

Sophia bristled. "On the bus? In front of every...one?" They were alone. The driver's eyes were focused on the road.

"No-one will hear." Taylor's statement was a hard fact.

Sophia looked deep into Taylor's cephalopod eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat. She felt very small, but every second that she delayed the pressure on her chest increased. It might all be in her head, but it felt as though she had to speak or die.

Her eyes drifted down to the floor. "...When I was ten years old, my mom met a new man." She worried her bottom lip, nearly drawing blood. "His name was Steven."

(BREAK)

Parian didn't actually own the shop at which she worked. It was popular enough from her activity that people naturally assumed, but the draconian restrictions on parahuman business from NEPEA-5 and other such laws made owning a business exceedingly difficult. Officially she was a salaried employee of Howard Moore, who ran a little clothes shop. Functionally, she brought in business and made enormous money in commissioned work, kicking 30% back to Moore.

Another common misconception, Parian did not design costumes for parahumans. Far too dangerous. The risk of unmasking another cape, or having her shop targeted because someone got ahold of her appointment schedule and wanted to take out a rival...too much could go too wrong. She made perfectly-tailored clothes, particularly dresses. It helped that she was so tiny, dressed like a little porcelain doll complete with a stylized doll mask: people were less uncomfortable around a cape who seemed utterly unthreatening.

As she helped close up the shop, the bell above the front door rang to announce a new entry. "We're closing up," she called, "but maybe I can help you."

The prospective customer was small and slight for a man, about 5'9" if her estimate was correct, but maybe five-eight in thick-soled shoes. Pale skin, blue eyes, and long platinum-blond hair that spilled down his shoulders. The poor guy looked like a Hanson groupie who'd never found out the 90s were over. If his phone rang, she'd bet dollars to donuts it'd play MMMBop.

The guy had the good grace to look contrite over his late arrival, toying with a lock of hair. "Ah, yeah, sorry for showing up so late. I had a hell of a day. Almost got run over by a...ah, you don't care," he waved off his sob story. "I was hoping to at least get some measurements done, or even know if you could make something for me? Not really a suit, but 'costume' gives the wrong idea." He started gesturing. "More of a not-Halloween costume? Some friends and I are getting dressed up and there's a whole story behind it, but basically I need something exotic that'll also hold up to stress. Gonna go barhopping and I don't want it to rip apart if a fight starts."

Behind her mask, Sabah rolled her eyes. This sounded like some amateur cape trying to get a costume from her. "You know I don't make costumes for parahumans."

His blue eyes locked onto hers through the mask. "I can promise you," he said softly. "This isn't for any activities as a parahuman. Did that come out weird? Yeah, that came out kinda weird. Stilted. Look, can I show you the idea? I've been doing some sketching."

He laid out a cheap sketchbook, likely bought just a day or two ago, with some pencil work done. It was amateurish, but he was at least able to convey his intent, and Parian was relieved. Something this cartoonish wouldn't function as a parahuman costume. It consisted of a long, black cassock-style robe and a cloak over it. The cloak would be covered in black feathers.

(BREAK)

Sherrel Bailey knocked on the cell door. She'd been afforded a more comfortable cell, but it was still lacking any sort of technology, so she couldn't simply buzz for a guard. When one arrived, she looked at the youngish hispanic man through his clear visor. "Could you get me whoever I talk to about rebranding? And, uh, therapy? Rehab?"

Before, she'd taken to the drugs to make the nightmares stop. Now, she knew the new nightmares would come regardless. But when she'd been building to help people, working to fight those monsters, she'd felt the ever-present malaise of her life slip back just a skosh. For the first time since the day she regretted the most in her life, she felt as if her daughter would be proud of her. Sherrel wanted more of that. She'd failed her little girl once, maybe this was the chance to at least be the kind of person who might've been a good mother.