/o\

Recoil

Part 1-9: Ongoing Affairs

Later That Day

Dorothy Hebert stared at me. "Taylor, am I hearing this correctly? You beat up a girl at school?"

"No, Mom," Danny interjected, barely able to hold back a grin. "She beat up three girls." Oddly, despite being a relatively pacifistic person, he seemed strangely proud of me.

George regarded me, greying eyebrows drawn down; I could not tell whether he was frowning in puzzlement or disapproval. But he did not speak.

"That's even worse," Dot reproved her son. "Fighting of any sort is bad." She turned back to me. "I am very disappointed in you. A lady never raises her hand to another person."

As if you could call me a lady, I thought with dark amusement.

"Wait a minute," Nina put in. "You haven't heard the whole story yet."

"I'm not sure if I want to hear any more," Dot replied with a shudder.

"But I was defending another girl," I burst out. "They were picking on her, and they wouldn't leave her alone."

"So you should have left," Dot retorted. "Walked away. Been the bigger person."

"I tried," I insisted. "One of them grabbed my arm and stopped me."

Dot's curiosity overcame her. "So what did you do? I suppose you punched her."

I shook my head. "No. I twisted her little finger until she let go. So then her friend tried to slap me."

"Did you punch her, then?" asked Dorothy.

"I didn't punch anyone. I blocked her slap, and kicked her in the leg." Wisely, I decided not to tell Dot that I had aimed specifically to kick her under the kneecap; far more painful and disabling than a simple kick in the shin. "She decided not to try to slap me again. But the last girl grabbed me around the arms then."

"So what did you do?" asked Danny, his face alight with the excitement of the narrative.

"Danny!" scolded Dorothy. She paused, and turned to me. "What did you do?"

I took a deep breath. "I, uh, elbowed her in the ribs and stamped on her foot to make her let me go. And then … I guess I kneed her in the stomach a little bit." And then she threw up everywhere. But I'm not going to mention that.

Dot shook her head sadly. "That was far too violent, Taylor. Nothing can excuse that sort of behaviour."

"Mom, the girl was trying to hold Taylor so her friends could beat her up," protested Danny.

"Also, there was how they were picking on Gladys," I told her. "It was really mean."

"What were they doing?" she asked.

"They were trying to tell me that she was gay, and that I shouldn't be her friend."

Her eyes narrowed. "And is she? That way, I mean?"

I shook my head. "No, she's just an ordinary girl. She told me about this boy she's interested in."

"And they were spreading tales about her?" Dot persisted.

I nodded. "Not just jokes. They were serious about it."

I didn't tell her, of course, that I wouldn't have cared if Gladys was gay. It simply wasn't a factor.

Dorothy compressed her lips. "Fighting is bad, but you were defending another person who was being sinned against, and you only fought to defend yourself." She heaved a sigh. "I understand that you did not feel as though you had much choice, but try not to let it happen again."

"Uh ..." began Nina.

"What?" asked Dot.

"The principal suggested, and I concurred, that she be enrolled in the Junior ROTC. This will channel and make the best use of her aggressive instincts."

"Military training?" frowned Dorothy. "I don't know ..."

"Uh, not military training as such," I interjected. "Just … showing us how they do things in the military. But it does mean that once I go on to college, I can walk straight into the ROTC program, if I so choose."

"But I thought you were going into a career with computers," Dot protested. "Not the military."

"Mom, the military isn't all shooting things and blowing them up," Danny put in. "By the time Taylor graduates, they'll have computers there too."

"Believe me," I agreed, "I don't intend to go far away from computers."

Dorothy's expression was dubious. She was no doubt trying to imagine the bulky, cantankerous machines in the Port Authority as part of a military endeavour, and failing.

"Not everyone in uniform has to be out there with a gun," I explained. "The military has doctors and priests and clerks, too."

"But surely it's safer not being in the military? All those guns and bombs?"

I spread my hands. "Well, it's not like I have my heart set on being in the Army or Navy." And I was even telling the truth. "It's just another option for a career, is all." I half-grinned. "And more people die in traffic accidents every year than in the military."

"That can't be true," Dorothy averred, but her tone was unsure.

"The girl's right," George put in gruffly. "Forty thousand people die on the roads every year. Far less than that in the military."

Dorothy and I both turned to stare at him.

He frowned. "What? I have to be aware of accident statistics."

"Dear, you're not really taking her side in this, are you?" she asked.

George frowned. "I can't say I totally agree with girls fighting. But it sounds to me like she didn't have much of a choice. And if she's going to be fighting, then it's a good idea if she does it right."

He stood up from the armchair in which he had been residing through the majority of the discussion. "Give me your arm, girl."

Dumbly, I offered him my right arm. He took it, felt the muscle, inspected my knuckles. "Hm," he growled. "You done much fighting?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. It seemed to come fairly naturally."

A nod. "Maybe so. Make a fist."

I clenched my fist. He felt it, squeezing it with his large hand. "Well, you know how to do that, at least. But you haven't done much bare-knuckle work." Holding up his own hand, he clenched it into a fist that looked to be about the size of my head; as he tensed the muscles, I could see white scars showing up clearly across the knuckles.

"I didn't punch anyone today," I pointed out.

"No, you didn't," he agreed. "You used other hard points on your body. Knee, elbow, foot. All useful. Someone gave you some basic training, I'd wager. Nothing fancy, nothing classical. But you know how to handle yourself, at least against other schoolgirls." He gave me an approving nod. "That's a fair basis to be starting from, when they're teaching you hand to hand."

"Dear, you're not saying you support this idea of her doing this?" expostulated his wife.

George shrugged massively. "Why not? Give her discipline, let her learn a real trade. Some of my best men were in the Navy, once upon a time." He held up his open palm. "Let's see how you hit."

I took a deep breath, rolled my shoulders. Balanced on the balls of my feet, as Brian had shown me, once upon a time. Held my arms loosely in front of me, where I could cover my body. Then I fired a punch, as hard as I could, using my left hand, from the shoulder. It smacked into George's hand, with a meaty sound. I followed it up with a straight right, equally hard. Each time, I put my weight behind it, aimed at a point some six inches behind his hand.

Danny's jaw slowly dropped open as I stood back, relaxing, adopting a non-threatening posture.

George nodded slowly. "You don't hit badly, for a girl," he allowed. "Harder'n Danny there, I'll wager. You know how to cover up, too; that's good. Grow up a bit, fill out some, you could be a real scrapper. And you're fast. Plus, you know some dirty tricks, which is good too. A good dirty fighter'll beat out a good clean fighter any day of the week, all else being equal."

"George!" Dot protested again.

He turned to her. "What do you want me to say, Dottie? The girl's willing to stand up for herself, she can throw a punch, and she keeps a cool head. I can respect that. Wherever she comes from, she's not had it easy. So why not let her do this?"

I was just a little surprised myself. Ever since I had entered the Hebert home, George had been the brooding Olympian presence across the table, or in the armchair in the corner of the living room, often disapproving, never outwardly friendly. And now, because I had not only gotten into a fight, but also acquitted myself well, he was showing favour toward me. Not for the first time, I reflected that life in the past was bizarre.

"Dorothy, really, she isn't joining the military immediately," Nina pointed out. "Joining the JROTC simply replaces her physical education periods with training from military instructors, and sometimes she may go on field trips and exercises." She shrugged. "She may well dislike it intensely."

"Well, I suppose, if you put it that way … " Dot temporised. "I suppose it isn't as bad as I had first thought."

I stayed quiet; I had seen the JROTC curriculum, and I intended to make full use of it. But I doubted that Dorothy would be overly pleased at the idea of some of the things on it. Going over to her, I gave her a hug. "Thanks, Dot," I told her sincerely. "This feels right. I really think I need it."

"That's all right, dear," she told me, patting me on the back. "I'm sure it will all turn out all right in the end. Give me a hand with dinner?"

I smiled at her. "I'd love to."

And for the rest of the evening, I was as demure and ladylike as possible. George wasn't fooled; I swear I saw his eyes twinkle once or twice. But he said nothing.

"Wow, I wish you could tell me where you learned how to do that," Danny enthused.

We were sitting on the back porch, after dinner. I had helped Dot with clearing the dishes and washing up, and she was now watching TV in the living room with Nina and George.

"I wish I could too," I told him honestly. Though you might not be thrilled at the idea of Brian and me, after he became my boyfriend, for all of one month.

"You're a real mystery girl," he mused. "Think of the secrets locked in your memories. Where you've been. What you've done. How you learned to do that."

It hurt me more than I was willing to admit, even to myself, that I could not in all conscience reveal the truth to him. If I told him even a small part of the real story, then more and more would have to be told, or lies made up to cover what I could not tell him. Where I was from; or rather, when I was from. How I ended up in the ocean off Brockton Bay, in 1989, from 2011. What events had led to my being sent back. What I had done, much of which I was not proud of, before the catastrophic battle with Behemoth.

It was more than a can of worms; it was a cage of deadly vipers. Merely opening it could cause serious problems all around. Better it stayed closed, no matter how much it pained me to lie to my own father-to-be.

"It's a mystery, all right," I agreed lightly. "But now you know that when I say I'll beat you up, I'm not just kidding." He could see by my grin that I was joking.

"You're a mean, mean woman," he accused me. "Threatening me with physical violence. I'll tell Mom and Dad on you."

I gave him an innocent look, and batted my eyelashes. "Who do you think they would believe?"

"Mean and unfair." He crossed his arms and pretended to sulk.

"Poor Danny," I giggled. "I'll protect you from all the other mean girls."

We both laughed so hard that when Nina came out to see what was going on, it took me three tries to explain the joke to her.

I was pleasantly surprised, when I attended my first JROTC class, to find Gladys Harvey had also joined.

"What are you doing here?" I asked her in an undertone, during a lull in the proceedings.

"Hey, you join, I join," she told me. "My parents don't mind; my dad thinks it might toughen me up."

"Cool," I told her. "We can team up, do things together."

At that moment, we discovered an interesting fact; specifically, that the instructor for the Winslow High School JROTC had rather good hearing.

I had indeed been correct in predicting that Gladys and I would do things together.

It turned out that the first thing we were going to do together was push-ups; quite a lot of them.

After that, we paid more attention in class.

March, 1990

"Come in, Joe. Take a seat." Principal Woodbine pulled a bottle of best bonded bourbon from his desk drawer. "Care for a snort?"

"Don't mind if I do, Paul. I do not mind in the slightest."

Woodbine pulled out his cigar case, and offered it to his guest. They both lit up, and soon large clouds of smoke were hanging over each man. Leaning back comfortably, they sipped the liquor and puffed out more clouds of smoke.

Woodbine was the first to break the silence. "So, how's this year's course going?"

Former Sergeant Joseph Campbell, now the Winslow JROTC chief instructor, considered his answer as he puffed on his cigar. Fragrant smoke trickled out of his nostrils as he made his reply.

"They're a bunch of good kids. Some of them are just in it for kicks, but there are some that are real dedicated. The type I would have given my right arm for, back in the day."

"How about the Snow girl?" pressed Woodbine. He had nearly made a bad error of judgement, back when she had first joined Winslow, and the memory of it still haunted him.

Campbell chuckled. "Oh god. Her and that friend of hers, Harvey. What they haven't gotten up to."

Woodbine frowned. "Clowns? Screw-ups?"

Joe shook his head. "No. Just the opposite. They pay attention in class. It's almost scary, how much the Snow kid takes in, and Harvey's right there doing her best as well."

"And in the field?"

"Ah, there's the rub," Joe pontificated. "In the field, they're downright terrifying."

Woodbine raised an eyebrow. "Terrifying."

Joe shook his head. "Remember back when you were a green-as-grass second looey and I was your sergeant, back in the 'Nam? How there were some boys that were scared of every leaf-rustle and creak, and some that were just at home in the jungle?"

Woodbine nodded. He had an idea where this was going. "Yeah … "

"Well, the second type, that's these two. I set up exercises, just play-fights really, between teams. Capture the flag, tag out the other team, whatever. And whatever team Snow's in, wins. Well, except for the first time. She followed this one idiot's orders then, and they lost. Since then, if she's not put in charge, she simply assumes command, and then pulls some bullshit tactic out of her ass, and leaves the other side wondering what the hell happened." He took a drink. "Half the time, she leaves me wondering what happened."

Both of Woodbine's eyebrows rose, this time, but his voice remained level. "Really. Every time."

"I shit you not. Every goddamn time. I've whittled their team down until it was just those two against everyone else, and they still won."

"So is it Harvey as well, or just Snow?"

"Harvey's got a brain in her head, but it's Snow that pulls the rabbit out of the hat every time. Snow's a leader; Harvey's a follower, but a good one. Understands the plans, runs with them, backs her up to the hilt every time."

Woodbine frowned. "Uh, you don't think they're, uh … "

Joe shook his head definitively. "Nope. Snow's not interested in anyone, and Harvey's got this boyfriend she talks about all the time."

"Okay, then," agreed Woodbine, pouring himself some more bourbon. "How's the other training going?"

Joe held out his glass. "Thanks. Yeah, that's going pretty well too."

"Take aim."

I snuggled the rifle butt into my shoulder, and squinted down the sights. The frame of my glasses was pushed sideways slightly, but I couldn't help that.

"Fire."

Adjusting aim just a touch, I squeezed the trigger. The .22 rifle jolted back against my shoulder, as my ears were assaulted by the flat crack of the rifle going off. Alongside me, Gladys had fired a split second earlier.

"Snow, you're two inches up, and three to the left," reported the instructor behind us, binoculars to his eyes. "Harvey, you're half an inch down and two to the right. Reload and take aim again."

I worked the bolt, ejecting the shiny brass cartridge-case and making a mental note where it fell, because I knew I would be responsible for policing it afterward. Slamming the bolt forward pushed another round into the chamber, and I carefully took aim once more, as instructed.

Gladys was better at this than I was; I worked assiduously at it, but it seemed that she simply had the better talent for it. She was also filling out well with the exercise; in nearly six months, she had put on serious muscle. I had also bulked up a little, but nothing compared to how she had done.

Where I starred was in field exercises, and in handling people in general. Gladys would help me smuggle the tape deck out into the field, and would cover me while I snatched five or ten minutes to confer with Lisa. That would give me a good basic strategy to work with, upon which I could usually add flourishes of my own.

She had been surprised and puzzled, the first time I chose to listen to music before the exercise started, but after our first victory, she wasn't about to argue. Between us, we had proven to be quite a team, and I was determined to maintain my precarious run of victories. I knew quite well that Sergeant Campbell was going to test me just as hard as he could, but then, I hadn't signed up for JROTC because of the easy life.

"Fire."

I squeezed the trigger; both rifles spoke at the same time. Beside me, Gladys emitted a tiny yip of victory, and I knew she'd nailed a perfect bullseye.

"Snow, you're over-correcting; an inch down and to the right. Harvey, put your next shot right there. Reload and take aim."

I did as I was told, let my sights drift up and left a fraction.

Shooting was one thing Lisa's tutoring couldn't help me with, and I was proud of how well I was doing at it. Gladys and I were the best shots in the class, and while I had no doubt that she would win the end-of-year shooting trophy, I was bound and determined to get second place, or maybe third.

It was all a matter of keeping at it till I got it right.

Spring Break, 1991

"So who are you going to the senior prom with?" asked Gladys idly.

I leaned against my end of the bus shelter. "Dunno. Do I need to have a partner?"

"It is kind of expected," she reminded me.

I shrugged. "I don't know that many guys that well."

"One of the guys from JROTC?" she suggested.

I snorted. "They either want to know how I do it, or are determined to beat me, or both. There's no-one there that's just a friend." I looked at her. "How about you?"

"What?" She looked startled. "Are you asking me to be your partner?"

"No, no, god no!" We both burst out laughing at the same time. "I was asking if you had a partner."

She ducked her head and blushed. "Frank's asked me."

"And you said yes?"

She nodded vigorously, still blushing. "Shouldn't I have?"

I smiled at her. "Of course you should have. Good for you."

When she had first met Franklin Knott, they had been so adorably shy together that it had taken him six weeks to get up the nerve to ask her out. She had asked me what she should say. By that time, I had been fairly certain that she was indeed the woman I would know as Mrs Knott, twenty-two years later. So I had given her very strong encouragement.

Their budding relationship had gone well; he was obviously smitten by her, and she thought he was the most handsome man on earth. But they both broke out in a severe case of shyness whenever they were in the same room, so quite often I had had to be the go-between.

The fact that he had asked her to the senior prom himself, I took as a good sign; the fact that she had accepted on her own, an even better one. Maybe they could start taking matters into their own hands now, and I could stand back and let them be.

"So," she persisted, "who are you going with?"

I frowned. "You're much more assertive than when first I met you. I blame myself."

She grinned at me. "It is your fault for getting me into JROTC." She pronounced it 'jay-rot-see', as I did.

"Got you into it, my ass. You joined of your own free will."

"When you kicked Larissa's ass, I wanted to see how you did it. Do you blame me?"

I shrugged. "I guess not. Do I have to take someone?"

"You could always ask Danny."

Gladys had spent a lot of time at the Hebert house, and got along well with both Dot and George. She had formed an immediate friendship with Danny, and had even had a bit of a crush on him in the days before she met Frank Knott. As it was, she occasionally wondered out loud why I did not snap him up before someone else got him.

I couldn't tell her the truth, of course; I merely shrugged and told her that he wasn't someone I was really interested in.

Now, her suggestion came out of the blue and caught me unawares.

"I can't," I blurted. "He's my -"

Almost, I said "father", but managed to change it in the last second to "brother, well, sort of".

She shook her head. "Not legally, he's not."

"I just feel that way, okay?" I told her.

She threw up her hands. "Well, fine. You don't have to make out with him. Just bring him along to dance with. Or can't you even do that?"

I sighed. "Okay, fine. I'll ask him. Just to dance with."

She grinned at me. "Excellent. If you didn't bring a partner, I wasn't going to bring one either. And I really did want to bring Frank along."

I stared at her. "Wow, Gladys. Way to guilt me."

She positively smirked. "What are friends for?"

"Wait, what?" asked Danny. "You want me to be your date for the senior prom?"

"Shh," I warned him. "Not so loud." I turned my head to glance through the back door, but no-one had apparently heard.

He stared at me. "But I thought that I – that you -"

"All that's still true," I assured him hastily. "We're still just friends. Nothing's changed there. I just need a date, otherwise Gladys is going to go alone, to show solidarity."

"Ah," he replied, comprehending. "Franklin." He had met Gladys' boyfriend a few times, and they got along fairly well. He didn't quite share the proprietary interest that I had in making sure that they formed a lasting relationship, but he understood that it was important to me for some reason. And so, when I had gone to him for advice on how a guy thinks, he had cheerfully given it.

"And I couldn't take that sort of guilt, not after he actually got around to asking her, and she accepted, all by themselves," I confessed. "So; can you do this?"

He shrugged. "Sure," he replied. "What are friends for?"

I wish people would stop asking me that question.

Saturday, May 25, 1991

Senior Prom, Winslow High School

Danny and I circled the dance floor; I had grown a bit over the previous eighteen months, but he was still taller than me. He was dressed in black tie and tails; I had on a matching black dress.

"I really expected your parents to make more of a fuss when you told them you were my date for the senior prom," I commented. I was glad that they hadn't, but I wanted to sound him out on the topic, in case there was something I had missed.

"Well, Mom still thinks that you and I would make the perfect couple, and I think Dad's warming up to the idea," he informed me mischievously.

I pressed the heels of my hand to my forehead, and tried not to growl. "Danny, I don't need this. After graduation, I'll be moving out. Sorry."

"What?" His expression was that of a kicked puppy. "I didn't mean anything by it, really. I was just making a joke."

"I know, I know," I told him. "But … I was always going to move out, sooner or later. I was originally going to stay there while I went to college, but … not any more."

"What's the problem?" he asked. "Is it me? Is it Dad? We can work it out, whatever it is."

I hated to see him like this, but my mind was made up. "Sorry, Danny. Your mom's a dear, and I'm starting to get a line on your dad, and you've been really good about not pressuring me. But I'm starting to get that pressure from them now, to be with you. You were joking, but I'm not."

"I can talk to them -"

I cut him off. "It won't do any good. They're your parents. That means they'll do what they think is best, no matter what you tell them."

"And you still can't tell me why -"

I shook my head. "Not for a long time, if ever," I told him. "Sorry."

We passed by Gladys and Franklin; she shot me a beaming smile, then made a quick gesture indicating drinking. I nodded.

"Let's get off the floor for a while," I told Danny. "I'm starting to get a headache. I think I need some punch and a breath of fresh air."

"Sure thing," he agreed readily, and we made our way to the edge of the dance floor. Gladys met us there, with Franklin in tow; she was flushed with happiness, while he looked as though he couldn't believe his luck.

"Isn't this great?" she enthused. "I can't believe we finally made it to the end of the year."

I watched as Danny ladled punch into cups for us. "Yeah," I agreed. "It's awesome."

It wasn't the high school prom that I had envisaged for myself; in fact, I hadn't really envisaged one at all, back in 2011. I had been too miserable, too wrapped up in the hell engineered by the Trio. Even if I hadn't gotten powers, I most likely would have stopped going to school around Spring Break, and never gone back.

Or done something worse to myself.

I didn't want to think about that, now.

Gratefully, I accepted the plastic cup of punch from Danny, and took a drink. The tart orange flavour, with overtones of several different types of soda, slid down my throat, refreshing me with its coolness.

A kid I didn't know offhand, one of the year elevens that was attending the dance, came up to me. "Taylor Snow?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's me," I agreed. "What's up?"

"I just got told to tell you. There's someone outside who wants to see you."

"Who is it, and why?" I asked.

"Dunno," he responded. "I just got told to fetch you."

Turning, he disappeared into the crowd. Danny looked after him, then shrugged. "Okay, so shall we go see what this is about?"

I frowned. "Just a second."

Being told that 'someone wants to see you' is one of the oldest traps in the book. The lack of details simply made it all the more suspicious.

Of course, whoever set it also probably knew that I didn't back down from challenges of this sort. Which made it bait, in a way.

I reached into my handbag, which was a little larger than the average. That was because, as well as the standard makeup and change purse, it also held my precious tape deck, and some other items which never left my side, even at a high school dance.

After all, one never knew when one needed such things.

Such as right at this moment.

The kid was waiting just inside the doors leading to the outside.

"Just out here," he told us, and pushed his way out.

We followed; I felt the chill night air strike me from all angles, and reach down into my lungs. It tasted even better than the punch. Danny stepped up beside me, and Gladys and Franklin flanked me on the other side.

"Problem, you think?" murmured Gladys to me. I was glad to see that she held her high-heeled shoes in her hands, walking cat-footed in her stocking feet. I myself wore flats; I was quite tall enough as it was, without positively towering over all the other girls there.

"Wouldn't be surprised," I replied, in a low tone. "Keep an eye out."

"Around this way," piped up the kid, leading us toward a gap between two of the caterers' vans.

Danny frowned. "This doesn't look right."

"What do you mean?" asked Franklin; he wasn't quite as fast on the uptake.

"It's not," I agreed with Danny.

We stepped through the gap; the kid was nowhere to be seen. He'd probably ducked into the shadows somewhere. But that didn't mean we were alone.

"Well, hi," a familiar voice purred, and Larissa Green stepped into the light. "Fancy meeting you here."

Flanking her were her two cronies, as well as several other girls that I did not recognise. They did not, in fact, look as though they came from Winslow.

Gravel crunched behind me, and I pushed Danny to one side, and ducked to the other. Grabbing hands got the strap of my handbag, but not me; I tried to keep hold of it, but the two guys who came through the gap were stronger than me, and the bag was plucked from my grip.

"So what the fuck is this about, Larissa?" I snapped. "Don't tell me you're still pissed about your finger."

I saw other guys looming in the shadows, so I kept my movements slow, unthreatening. Larissa stepped forward and paraded all the way around me.

"From the first day you walked into Winslow, you've been a thorn in my side, Snow," she informed me. "You made friends with that pathetic little bitch Harvey. You hurt me. You beat me. Uncle Paul took your side. You made me lose to you. I don't lose, Snow. Not ever."

I'd heard this song before, and from someone who would make Larissa tremble in her Gucci high-heeled shoes. She didn't impress me at all. "So what's the deal? Your friends are going to hold me so you can beat me up, and then you'll have won, is that it?"

She sneered. I had to admit, she did a really good sneer. "Not hardly. I've just asked them to … soften you up a bit, first. Make this a fair fight."

I nodded toward the strange girls. "Brought in ringers, did you? How did you get them into the dance?"

One of the guys stepped out of the shadows. "We brought them, as our dates," he informed me.

"Fuck me," I marvelled. "Gavin. Have you learned how not to walk into a simple trap yet?"

Gavin gritted his teeth. He and I had history; I regularly cleaned his clock in Sergeant Campbell's mock-warfare exercises. He'd been squad commander on our very first, disastrous, exercise. Since then, I had taken over, and Campbell had ignored Gavin's protests. Placed on other squads, Gavin had tried his best to show me up, but with Lisa in my corner, he didn't stand a chance.

Which now, as I belatedly realised, was showing a distinct downside. There was more than one JROTC cadet who had a problem with my rough handling of their squads, and they probably made up the rest of the boys who had been convinced to bring in the girls who were intended to beat me up.

I took another look at the girls in question.

This was not intended to be easy, by any stretch. Not one of them was a teenager any more, and they were broader and more muscular than I was. Good clothes and an expensive hairstyle probably represented more money than most of them had seen in quite some time.

I glanced aside at the guy who held my handbag. "Take good care of that," I warned him. "I finish here, I'm gonna want it back."

He blinked with surprise at being so addressed, but I was already moving. Gladys was moving with me; we had done this dance before.

Only this time, there would be no time-outs.

The four girls spread out to surround us, arms spread wide, fingers crooked. I nodded. They intended to get close, to grab, to drag us down, and dogpile us. Sound tactics.

So long as I was willing to go along with them. As it happened, I wasn't.

Brockton Bay of 1991 may have been a kinder and gentler place than the same place in 2011, but that wasn't to say it was a nice place. There were still criminals, and crime was still committed. A teenage girl, running early in the morning, could be seen as a target by a certain subset of the criminal fraternity. I'd used this as an excuse to check with George to see if he could get me pepper spray or an extendible baton. The first was easier to get, apparently; through his contacts, he'd gotten me a few canisters. Lisa had informed me that in this time and place, they were marketed for use against unruly dogs. I shuddered to think what Rachel would do to someone using one of these on her charges.

Acting on Lisa's advice, I'd asked Nina Veder if she knew of anywhere I could get a baton. She'd only vaguely been aware of such things, but she said she'd look into it. Apparently, a friend of hers called 'Arjee' was more knowledgeable about such things than her. She'd come through a week or two later, handing over not only the baton but a laminated card licensing me to carry it as a self-defence weapon. I'd been a little bemused at the card, but kept it on me anyway.

So when I brought up my left hand, it held pepper spray. The tiny canister hissed and spat a stream across the intervening distance between me and Larissa; she screamed and recoiled as I got her right in the eyes. Then I switched directions, aiming for the first girl coming after me. She also got a faceful, but the stream died and petered away before I could get the second girl.

That one grinned and cracked her knuckles as I tossed the useless canister away. "So, what you gonna do now, skinny bitch?"

I let the extendible baton drop into my right hand, from where I'd been holding it against my forearm. With a flick of the wrist, I snapped it out to its full length. As a follow-through on the move, I cracked her across the elbow on the first swing, and the side of the knee on the backswing. She screamed and fell to the ground, holding her stricken limbs.

"I dunno," I told her. "I'll think of something."

I took the time to put the first girl down, then turned to see how Gladys was doing.

The two girls facing her were undoubtedly skilled in simple brawling. Gladys had been taking training in boxing over the last eighteen months. She had heft, and she had muscle, and she had skill. By the time I turned around, she had already laid out one of the girls, and was advancing on the other with grim intent.

For my part, I turned to face the guys watching. "We can do this all night," I warned them. "You want to beat up on a girl, come right ahead. It can get as bloody as you like."

Danny pulled himself free from the guy holding him, then stepped up to my side. "And if you want to get to her, you'll have to come through me," he added.

It was a sweet sentiment, but I didn't want him getting hurt defending me. I turned to the guy who had been holding my handbag, but he was no longer there. My handbag was lying on the ground nearby, though.

I took a step toward it, and the second girl reached out and grabbed my ankle; frowning in annoyance, I turned toward her, raising my baton.

"No!" shouted Gavin. "Don't!" He moved toward me, necessitating me to divide my attention.

In that moment, Rachel darted forward and snatched the bag up. Upending it, she scattered the contents over the ground. I saw the tape deck fall, one corner cracked, the compartment springing open, the tape coming out.

Lisa.

"No!" I shouted. I kicked the girl in the face, pulled my leg free and started forward; Gavin grabbed my arm.

He deserved what he got; I grabbed his little finger and bent it straight back, so fast and hard that it snapped before he had a chance to let go. He did let go, of course, but it was too late. Far too late.

Melanie Caldwell got in my way, briefly. As I had done, on the very first day I had met her, I kicked her under the kneecap. Same kneecap, too. I wondered absently if it hurt just as much as the first time.

Rachel Pritchard, who had spitefully told tales about me on that very first day, knew somehow about my attachment to that tape player, to that tape. She smashed her foot down on the cassette, shattering the plastic. Then she ground her heel into the coils of dark recording tape that spilled out of it.

I collapsed the baton. Wrapped my fist around it. And punched her so hard that I broke her jaw in two places.

Behind me, Danny had taken on Gavin; I had been giving him some pointers over the last year and a bit, and he had paid attention. Gavin wasn't that great at self-defence, and he had a broken finger to contend with; Danny was doing well. Franklin wasn't a fighter, but by now, most of the participants wanted to be elsewhere.

And so, when Principal Woodbine and several teachers came to investigate the commotion, they found quite a sight.

Larissa was still writhing on the ground, clawing at her eyes. Melanie was clutching her knee, while Rachel was out cold. Gladys had finished off her opponents, and had backed up Danny in keeping the others off of me.

And I was kneeling on the hard gravel, heedless of the damage to my dress or my stockings, cradling the remains of the shredded tape in my hands.

The police were, inevitably, called. It took a lot of talking, but matters were eventually sorted out. My claim of self-defence was backed up by Gladys and Danny. The pepper spray was queried, but after I explained that I kept it for protection against dogs while running, they gave me a pass. They initially wanted to confiscate the baton and charge me for its use, but once I was able to show them my licence for it, they became a little more polite about matters. I was, however, warned sternly to not use sprays like that on people again, and ordered to hand over any more that I had. Meekly, I gave them the other canister I had in the bag. It didn't matter to me; I had spares.

Nina was roused and came in to the police station to vouch for me; I showed her the destroyed cassette with tears in my eyes. She didn't understand, not really, but she comforted me, and told me that she would get another one. I wasn't sure if she could; her friend had gone out of the self-hypnosis business, and I hadn't been able to get a spare tape when I looked for one.

I didn't care about laying criminal charges, and I told them so. All I wanted was for that tape to be intact; as far as I knew, it was the only way I could contact Lisa, talk to her, be with her outside of a dream.

In a very real way, Rachel had just killed my best friend from my previous life. I would probably still dream of her, I knew, but without the reinforcement of the self-hypnosis, would the dreams themselves fade away?

Would I lose Lisa forever?

It wasn't the potential loss of the knowledge that hit me so hard; it was the loss of Lisa herself; the snarky humour, the ready grin, the reminder of the world I had left behind.

But of course, I couldn't explain this to anyone, not even Nina.

She drove Danny and me home; Dot exclaimed over the news of the attempted beating, and cleaned my knuckles, clucking in concern. They were only mildly split, but she seemed to be quite adept at it. I guessed that she'd had to do this more than once for George, in days gone past.

I left Danny and George sitting in the living room; George seemed to be getting a blow-by-blow account of the fight from his son. Slowly, wearily, I went upstairs and prepared for a shower.

I hadn't been hit once through the entire fight, but it seemed as though the wind had been knocked out of me. Never again would I be able to slip on the headphones, relax to the soothing strains of the music, and go to that place in my mind – or outside of it – where Lisa resided.

Turning on the shower, I stepped under the spray and closed my eyes. Hot tears welled in my eyes and leaked out from between the closed lids.

Slowly, I sat down, arms clasped around my knees, the bathtub hard under me.

"Lisa," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."

The repetitive drumming of the shower on the bathtub and the wall of the cubicle, the trickling of hot water over my face, down my body, even the breath moving in and out of my lungs, it all seemed to drag out, to fade away.

There was a tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes, to see Lisa regarding me quizzically from a foot or so away.

"What?" she asked. "You've been calling my name for the last few hours. I've been trying to get your attention."

Looking around, I blinked. I was sitting on the patio with the fountains, in front of the memory palace.

Wow, I muttered. I must have fallen asleep in the shower.

She shook her head with a cheerful grin. "Nope. You're still awake. So to speak, that is. You're definitely not in REM-sleep."

But that's not right. I'm not listening to the tape.

Lisa chuckled and shook her head. "You haven't needed that thing for ages. It was just a crutch."

I haven't? But … oh god, I thought I was going to lose you forever.

Lisa squeaked as I grabbed her in a fierce hug. "Hey, hey, it's all right, Taylor. It really is." She hugged me back.

So I can talk to you any time just by … relaxing?

"Basically, yes," she agreed. "Now, it's time to finish your shower. You don't want to use all the hot water. Now, give me a kiss before you go."

Holding her close, I kissed her; her lips tasted of dust and blood.

An errant droplet of water from the fountain flicked me in the eye; I blinked.

And I opened my eyes to the shower, with water still streaming over me.

With a much lighter heart, I finished showering off. Bidding the others good night, I went along to my room and climbed into bed.

With a smile on my face, I drifted off to sleep.

End of Part 1-9