/o\

Recoil

Part 2-4: The Light at the End of the Tunnel is an Oncoming Train

January 1992

"So how are we going to do this?" asked Andrea cheerfully.

I swallowed the bite of cheeseburger I had just taken, and looked at her. "Do what?"

She waved her hands vaguely. "You know, save the world."

I paused. "Ah." I belatedly recalled that I had not given Andrea many details. In fact, I hadn't given anyone many details.

Though, ironically, I was regularly giving Andrea details – passed on from Lisa – about how the stock market was going to react, and which horses were likely to win in which races. Our war chest was growing in leaps and bounds.

She was looking at me a little quizzically. "'Ah'? That's not very informative."

I nodded. "I know." Glancing around at the McDonalds restaurant, I finished off my cheeseburger and chucked the remains of my shake in the bin. "Let's get out of here. What I've got to say isn't for casual eavesdroppers."

"Okay!" she agreed enthusiastically, and bounced out of her seat. She was always so enthusiastic, so bouncy. It was hard not to like her.

She hummed the Mission Impossible theme all the way out to the car. It was so adorably dorky that I couldn't help but laugh.

"So," she began, once we were out of the parking lot, "is this where you swear me to silence?"

"No point," I told her. "If you're gonna keep it secret, then you'll keep it secret no matter what I say. If you're gonna tell people, then the same thing applies. All I can do is ask you not to spread it around."

She nodded. "Okay, got it. Secret agent stuff. What's the first thing you were going to tell me?"

I took a deep breath. "Saving the world really isn't … saving the world. I just want to … head off some bad stuff. Stop some really big menaces." I sighed. "And, yeah, eventually save the world."

She tilted her head, glancing at me before putting her eyes back on the road. "Eventually?"

I grimaced; there was no way around it. "Andrea, this isn't going to be a quick job. I'm going to be at this for years. Decades."

She stared at me so hard she must have jerked the wheel, because the car swerved slightly. "Road!" I warned her, just as the guy in the car behind honked his horn; she had taken her foot off of the accelerator, and we were slowing down.

"We need to talk about this when we're not in the car," she decided, once we were back in the flow of traffic. "If you're gonna be dropping bombs like that on me, I definitely need to not be driving."

I nodded. "Yeah. Home?"

She grinned in reply. "Home."

Back in the apartment, we took our time getting comfortable on the bed. I was wedged up in the corner of the room with a pillow behind me, while Andrea lay back in the other direction, with her feet on my lap. She liked me to rub them, and I didn't mind; her feet were so delicate and cute.

Occasionally, she rubbed my feet when I asked, like after a gruelling ROTC exercise. Or she gave me a back massage, which was also nice. She didn't mind doing either one for me; it was how she'd gotten past my defenses that first time, after all.

"So when you say 'decades', you're not using a figure of speech, are you?" she commented perceptively.

I shook my head, cupping the balls of her foot in my hand. Slowly, I began to massage, the way she liked it. "No. I'm figuring twenty years as a rough ballpark."

"Why so long?" she asked. "Why can't we just locate whoever's gonna be causing the problem and just … I dunno, deal with it pre-emptively?"

"I wish we could," I admitted. "But I've been over all of this dozens of times, and it just won't work if I charge in like a battering ram. Plus, some of the problems are something I can't fix on my own. And some of the people I need help from haven't been born yet."

She raised her head to stare at me. "That might be the single strangest thing anyone has said to me while rubbing my feet."

I grinned back at her, and started on her other foot. She stretched out and sighed, enjoying the attention. After a while, she rolled over and started massaging one of my feet in return. This was one of the things we did. It made our odd relationship work.

"Things are going to get worse before they get better," I warned her, squeezing hard on the balls of her feet with my thumbs. "In December, something's going to happen. Something bad. I need to be ready. I need to be graduated by Christmas."

"Something bad, here in America?" she asked, massaging my Achilles tendon.

I shook my head. "No. Overseas. But it will affect everyone, everywhere, eventually. I can't tell you what or why, not right now. Just that it's a really, really bad thing." I bit my lip. "Bad enough that I might actually risk warning the heroes beforehand."

"If you do that, will it change matters?" she asked seriously. "Ooh, that tickles."

I tickled her again, just for fun; she wriggled, but didn't protest. Then I got serious again. "Probably not," I admitted. "What happens … it's a huge shock to everyone, everywhere. Especially after they realise the implications."

"Which are?" she asked quietly.

I stopped massaging her foot, and held out my hand to her. She took it, allowing me to pull her around so that she lay partly across my body. I held her close. "No-one's safe," I told her softly. "Anywhere. It will keep recurring. People will die. Thousands of people at a time. Normal people and parahumans too." I clenched my eyes shut, recalling the utter devastation of Behemoth's attack on New Delhi. Hot tears leaked out between the lids. "Too many people," I whispered.

Her arms went around me, and she embraced me as hard as she knew how.

"I'm here, Taylor," she told me. "I'll help. Any way you need me to."

I buried my face in her hair, and let her nearness comfort me. I know. And you have no idea how grateful I am.

-ooo-

February 1992

"So when you said you needed to be graduated by Christmas, you weren't joking," Andrea observed, eyeing the stack of books I had just deposited on my study desk.

"No," I agreed, "I was not. Like I told you, the thing that happens causes a massive reaction. One of those reactions is that the Protectorate becomes a government parahuman team, and recruits other capes as well."

"Capes?" She paused for a second. "Oh, costumed superheroes." She gestured to her back. "Because they wear capes."

I nodded. "It's what they end up calling them, in a few years." I paused, because she was looking at me questioningly. "What?"

"What's that bit got to do with you?" she asked. "Are you going to offer your powers to help out?"

"I don't have powers," I told her reflexively.

She shook her head, chuckling gently. "The hell you don't, girlfriend. Those aren't guesses you're writing down, every week."

I took a deep breath. "I … that's not a power, exactly. I … I'm getting help from … a friend."

She tilted her head. "I'd like to meet this friend of yours. He or she seems to know an awful lot."

"She did," I told her dully. "But she's dead. She died three years ago, and nineteen years in the future."

There was a long pause, as she worked this out. "Just before you came back," she eventually realised.

I nodded. "She was my best friend. Saved my life more than once. But … she died. When all this happened." I bowed my head, closing my eyes. Andrea's arms went around me, comforting, holding me close to her.

She held me while I cried.

A little while later, we lay side by side on the bed. My eyes were still red, but I wasn't sniffling any more. Andrea brushed my hair out of my face, and kissed me gently. "Feeling better?"

I nodded. "Thanks," I whispered. "Thank you for being here."

She nodded brightly. "All part of the girlfriend service. So, you were telling me about your friend."

I grinned ruefully. I'd found out the hard way exactly how persistent Andrea could be. And I did want to talk to someone about it.

"Her name was Lisa ..." I began.

-ooo-

April 1992

"Wait, wait, you really studied all the way through spring break?" asked Gladys. "I thought you were joking about that!"

I shook my head as I slid the magazine into the pistol. Making sure my ear protectors were firmly in place, I hit the button to run the target away downrange.

"No," I told her, raising my voice so as to be heard through the protectors. "There's stuff I need to be ready for."

Gladys ran her own target downrange as well, and readied her pistol. "Such as?"

I raised my hand to get the range captain's attention; he walked over, checked us out, and nodded. A buzzer sounded, to warn people that we would be opening fire at any moment.

"Everything," I told her, then lined my pistol and squeezed off the first shot.

Beside me, Gladys also fired. We both hit the ten-ring, shot after shot; repeated practice had done that for us. But just as she was better with a rifle, I was better with a pistol; by the time our magazines were empty, I had put more rounds through the X-ring than she had.

I engaged the safety catch on my pistol, then placed it on the bench in front of me with the action open to show the empty breech and the muzzle pointed downrange; Gladys did the same. We ran the targets back up to where we stood, and plucked them from the clips.

"Nice," observed Gladys, tapping the cluster of bullet-holes on my target. "I'm gonna need to up my game if I'm going to get the pistol trophy off you this year."

I made a rude noise with my lips. "As if. You're already a shoo-in for the rifle trophy, and you're likely to take boxing as well. I'll keep pistol, thanks."

We grinned at each other; when I had first met Gladys, she had been shy, uncertain and timid. Now, she was assertive and aggressive when she needed to be, and no-one shot against her for money. There was a reason she was captain of the rifle team.

But with all that, she was still a really nice person to be around, and still my best friend; Andrea understood that, and also that there was nothing between us but friendship. For Gladys' part, she had taken my relationship with Andrea on board with equanimity, and her own relationship with Franklin was getting along just fine.

I still kept in touch with Danny – he had started attending for his engineering degree, though still living at home – and Anne-Rose, although I saw them less often than I would have liked. Danny rarely referred to the revelation I had handed them in December; Anne-Rose, not at all. This didn't surprise me all that much. In other news, Anne-Rose had apparently been given 'my' room in the Hebert house when she stayed over, and was an established part of Danny's life.

Which suited me fine. I just wanted them to have a good life.

"So when you mean 'everything'," she commented, as we exited the firing range, "you mean ..."

"Just that," I told her. "Everything. Like I told you in December, there's a lot of shit approaching the human race at speed, and I need to be prepared to be in the right place at the right time."

"So you can stop it?" she asked, unlocking the door to her car.

"So I can help divert it. Eventually," I replied.

"And how's that going?" she asked.

I grimaced. "Not so great. I've sounded out my professors about accelerating my course load, and while some of them are of the opinion that if I can handle the pressure, they can help me along ..."

" … not all of them are of that opinion?" she guessed.

I nodded. "Yeah. One of them in particular."

"So what are you gonna do?"

A sigh. "Study harder. Prove to him that I can take it."

She eyed me carefully. "Can you take it?"

Another grimace. "Gonna have to, aren't I?"

-ooo-

June 1992

I grunted in pain, my face pressed into the mattress. Andrea held me down, mercilessly digging her thumbs into my back and shoulders. It felt for all the world as though she was trying to dig out my spine with her bare fingers, and succeeding.

And then something popped, and I felt a release of tension that I hadn't known was there. The relief was palpable, and I gasped out loud.

"One down," Andrea stated with satisfaction. "Many more to go. Taylor, half your back is a solid mass of knots. You're pushing yourself too hard."

"I've got to be ready," I told her stubbornly. "Once college lets back in, I've got four months to go, and Professor Kingsley's pushing back on the topic of my final paper. He says my research conclusions are erroneous, and if I write a paper based on them, he'll have no choice but to reject it."

"Because his name'll be linked to it?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "But he's wrong. I can write a paper that'll knock his socks off if he'll just read it."

"But what if he doesn't?' asked Andrea pragmatically. "He's under no obligation to accept your paper. You won't graduate. Sure, you'll write the best paper ever. B ut what use will it be to you if you're half-blind from studying in poor light, hunchbacked from too many tension knots in your back, and neurotic from pushing yourself too hard, too fast, and you haven't graduated by Christmas?"

I tried not to think about the excellent logic in her argument. "Andrea, I -" There was another pop, and I gasped again. "Oh god, that was amazing."

"I bet you tell that to all the girls," she replied; I could hear the wicked grin in her voice.

Which brought to mind our odd relationship. Andrea and I had met on my first day of college, and through a very odd series of developments, had ended up … together. Sort of.

Andrea, I learned very early on, was bisexual, although she much preferred girls. I considered myself straight, but I was open minded enough – especially for the time in which I found myself - that the thought of kissing another girl was acceptable to me; I could even appreciate the experience, on an aesthetic level. Maybe it was all the times I'd kissed Lisa goodbye …

… wait a moment.

Lisa had died in my arms, back in New Delhi, after the Behemoth debacle, in 2011. The very last thing she had done in life was to kiss me. Every time I had visited her in my dreams, or in a self-hypnotic trance, I had said goodbye to her with a kiss.

I was used to kissing girls.

Had Lisa been getting me accustomed to kissing girls, so that when I met Andrea, it would not be so unthinkable to enter into a physical relationship with her? Had she seen that far ahead?

Lisa, I told myself grimly, when I see you next, you got some 'splainin' -

Another knot in my shoulders went pop, and I lost my train of thought.

"Oh god," I groaned. "That feels so good."

"Wow, you just keep feeding me these straight lines," Andrea chuckled. "Just remember, you're making this up to me, tonight."

Awkwardly, I reached up and back; divining my intention, Andrea took my hand.

"I couldn't do this without you," I told her sincerely. "You mean a lot to me." Which meant that I would venture quite a way outside my normal comfort zone for Andrea. I had to admit, though, on the occasions that we did do anything, we both ended up having quite a lot of fun. Even if it still felt just a bit weird.

And the rest of the time, her emotional support, her down-to-earth nature, kept me grounded, kept me on course. Kept me from despairing at the magnitude of the task I had set myself.

She squeezed my hand. "You're pretty damn special to me too, Taylor," she responded. "Messiah complex and all."

I had to chuckle. "Is it really a Messiah complex if you are actually trying to save the world?"

"Let me get back to you on that one," she decided; letting go my hand, she dug her thumbs in again. "You've still got more knots than a Boy Scout convention here."

"Jamboree," I told her.

"What?"

"Boy Scout conventions are called Jamborees."

"Oh, shut up." She dug deeper.

Pop. That time, the release of tension nearly gave me whiplash.

"Oh holy god, what was that?"

Her expression was hidden from me, but I could hear the satisfaction in her voice. "Another five minutes of foot-rubbing, tonight."

I grinned and pillowed my chin on my crossed arms. "You got it."

-ooo-

September 1992

Andrea entered the apartment and looked around with a certain amount of surprise.

"Uh, why the mood lighting?" she asked.

I glanced around; the lights were nearly all out, and I had candles everywhere I could safely put them. Soft music was playing on the stereo.

Approaching her, I put my hands on her shoulders. "Do you remember what today is?" I asked softly.

She frowned, taking in the dressing gown I was wearing, and not making the connection. "Uh, the eighth of September?"

I smiled, then leaned in and kissed her, trying to make it sexy and tender. "It's our anniversary, silly."

Her eyes opened wide, then even wider as I undid the gown and let it slide back off of my shoulders to fall to the ground. Under it, I was wearing an extremely brief, extremely lacy, extremely transparent negligee.

"Holy shit," she murmured. "I forgot. I've never been in a relationship long enough to have an anniversary before." Her eyes lifted to mine with an effort. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head and gave her a smile, trying not to let her see the strain there. "Me neither. But you've stuck with me this far, and I thought I'd give you something nice." I gestured at my body. "Me."

"But you're straight," she protested.

"And you're not," I responded. "I know you want to -"

"What I want doesn't matter," she interrupted, then shook her head. "God, I never thought that I'd be trying to talk you out of letting me have sex with you."

I hesitated. "I – look, you mean a lot to me. You've helped me through so much. You've been here for me. It doesn't matter that Lisa manipulated me into being with you. You're a really nice person, and I like you a lot, and can't I just -"

She took my hands. "Taylor," she interrupted softly. "I like you a lot, too. But I like you when you're being you, not the person you think I want you to be. I like the shy, sweet Taylor, the one who doesn't throw herself at me."

I was beginning to shake, and she led me to the sofa and sat me down.

"We've had sex before -" I began.

"Yes," she agreed. "And it was my idea each time. I've had to get you into the mood, more or less trick you into it. That's the fun of it, for me with you. The look in your eyes when you realise what's going on."

I giggled, involuntarily, but it sounded high-pitched, almost hysterical. She put her arms around me, holding me, comforting me.

"You thought you had to do this, didn't you?" she murmured. "You thought you had to let me have sex with you on our anniversary, or what we have means nothing. That maybe I'd leave you for greener pastures if you didn't."

I nodded; I was still shaking with the tension. "I was going to do everything you wanted," I told her, trying not to choke on the lump in my throat. "I was going to be your perfect lover, just for tonight."

She shook her head, giggling at me, and kissed me; it was a simple, loving, affectionate kiss, not a romantic or deeply sexual one. "Don't you get it, Taylor?" she asked me. "You are my perfect lover. What we have together is better than anything I've ever had before. You mean something to me. You aren't in it for the sex. You like me for me. And when I do manage to sneak up you every now and again, that just adds spice on top."

I leaned against her, unable to speak. Tears spilled down my cheeks. This was a side of Andrea that I had never seen before, had not ever suspected.

"Come on," she told me softly, "let's get some clothes on to you before I forget myself and have my wicked way with you."

This time, my giggle was more natural, for all that I still had tears in my eyes. "I thought you were in it for the sex," I commented as we headed for the bedroom.

"Well, I am," she agreed readily. "It's just that, with special people like you, there's more than just sex to consider." She paused, and looked me up and down. "But I have to say, I do like the anniversary present you were going to give me." I flushed and giggled again.

And so she helped me get dressed again, and if she lingered a little over it, I wasn't going to deny her the small pleasures in life.

We slept that night in one anothers' arms, as usual, but this time, I felt just that little bit more at home in her embrace.

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice reasonable. "Professor, all of my research points to the same thing. Parahumans are going to be dominating the criminal scene in Brockton Bay in the next five to ten years. It's inevitable. If you'll just look at my reasoning ..."

Professor Kingsley was in his sixties; he'd had tenure at Brockton Bay College since long before super-powers were a thing, since well before Scion had ever appeared. The more I spoke to him, the more I got the distinct impression that he considered the whole cape phenomenon (to coin a phrase that wasn't in common parlance yet – oops) to be just a passing fad.

Except that he didn't seem to be interested in changing that opinion. Normally I wouldn't be worried about someone else's ignorance, but this time it was directly affecting my chances of graduation.

More and more super-powered individuals were cropping up all over; since January, both Allfather and Galvanate had gone public. Allfather had either moved to Brockton Bay recently, or had been flying under the radar up until now; Galvanate, I knew, was a former Mob enforcer who had triggered with powers, and gone into business for himself. Marquis had yet to show himself, but I was fairly certain that he was already in Brockton Bay, awaiting the ideal time to make his move.

The Mob, in Brockton Bay as with the rest of the United States, was more or less on the way out. Given their decades-long run in America, they were as conservative as any organised-crime syndicate could get. The rank and file were 'made men', and the upper echelon were all Family. This meant that a Johnny-come-lately super-powered upstart could not just buy himself into a place on the board; one did not simply step into a command position in the Mob without being scrutinised for years beforehand. In addition, given the conflict-based nature of parahumans and the 'passengers' that gave them their powers - Lisa and I had had several fascinating conversations on the subject - it went against the grain for the average cape to even consider accepting a non-powered boss. The Mob could not and would not adjust to this reality, and so they were destined to go the way of the dinosaur.

I also knew that in the next few years, with the shipping crisis leading to the creation of the Boat Graveyard, and the downturn in the city's fortunes, more and more villains would make the city their home. I was still a little hazy on whether the economic downturn would lead to the shipping crisis, or vice versa; it was very much a chicken-and-egg thing. One of the knock-on effects, though, would be the demise of Grantley High School, and the decline of Winslow.

All of which gave me excellent material upon which to base my final Criminology paper; worded vaguely enough, and with sufficient supporting evidence, it would pass for an intuitive but not magically prescient piece of work.

If only Professor Kingsley would let me write the thing the way I wanted, the way I knew things were going to turn out.

James Kingsley eyed the young woman on the other side of his desk with well-concealed disfavour. He did not approve of the liberal attitudes of the modern era; as far as he was concerned, a woman's task was to attain just enough of an education to be able to manage a household, and then find a suitable husband and do just that. Moreover, they ought to be demure, modest and above all, respectful of their station in life.

Taylor Snow, in the time that he had been aware of her, seemed to not care about any of this; she wore jeans instead of skirts, was a regularly attending member of ROTC, did not kowtow to anyone else's opinion on anything, and aggressively attacked the course-load in his class with an enthusiasm that was positively daunting. She had also clashed with him several times in class, politely but firmly disagreeing with his positions on the role of parahumans in the world.

He knew that she was studying ahead, buying textbooks where needed, to cover aspects of the subject that he had not yet touched upon. Herein lay a curious dichotomy in his mind; were a male student of his to push so hard, Kingsley would encourage him and wish him well. But he could only regard Taylor Snow's efforts with irritation that she was 'getting above herself'. Worse yet were her misguided opinions on parahumans, upon which she intended to base her final paper.

Kingsley was wholly unaware of the strong misogyntic streak in his nature, and would have been shocked and disbelieving had anyone pointed it out. In his own mind, he was entirely justified in his attitudes and actions; a not uncommon belief, even among the worst of tyrants.

In this instance, the conviction that he had formed was this: Taylor Snow is utterly mistaken about parahumans and she must learn the error of her ways.

Accordingly, he gazed across the width of his desk at her, and spoke calmly and firmly. "Request denied, Miss Snow. Your citations are weak and confused at best. I cannot in good conscience put my name to it." A patient smile, that only missed being condescending by a very narrow margin. "After all, in years to come, this paper may well affect your career. Do you want it to stand as a shining example of your work, or drag you down into medocrity?"

"But, Professor, I - "

He held up a hand. "I've said my piece. My judgement is final. That paper, written as it is, will not pass muster."

I stared at him in frustration. I had no idea why he had taken such a set against me. I was, of course, no stranger to adversity from those in authority; in Brockton Bay of 2011, I had encountered more than my fair share of such. But this had generally stemmed from either laziness, corruption, or the fact that I had been a supervillain for much of the year. Taking over great chunks of the city and terrorising the opposition with millions of bugs does tend to breed a little resentment.

However, in the case of Professor James Kingsley, I had no idea of the cause of the animosity.

That there was animosity, I had no doubt; he hid it well, but I had come up against that very sort of stonewalling obduracy too many times to mistake it. He refused to accept the central premise of my paper, and no amount of persuasion was going to change his mind.

And therein lay the problem; back in the day, I had had three ways to deal with obstacles. The first, and simplest, was to gather my resources and smash my way through them. The second way was to circumvent them, to go around. And the third was to simply walk away, as I did when Blackwell made it clear that she wasn't going to help against Emma's bullying; if I wasn't at school, then they couldn't bully me at school. So I stopped going to school.

Unfortunately, none of these tactics would work against Kingsley. I couldn't beat him up - or rather, I could, but it would do me no good - I couldn't work around him, and I really needed to graduate, in order that my credentials be sufficiently impressive when they started recruiting for the PRT in January.

Stymied, I turned and left his office. I managed not to slam his door, but it was an effort.

-ooo-

October 1992

"Whoof!" Gladys staggered back from the blow, and I followed up fast. I wasn't her equal in the boxing ring – quite a few of the male ROTC students weren't – but padded staffs were just the thing for me. I had long arms and speed, and that made up for her superior strength, for the most part. Although, when she was on form, she could hand me my ass with those, too.

Today, however, I was doing well. My staff-ends thwacked against her protective padding hard enough to sting, but not quite hard enough to break bones. She back-pedalled, then rallied and counter-attacked. I defended, slipping her blows aside, then hit her high and low in rapid succession.

The bell went, signalling the end of the round, and we stepped apart, saluting with our staffs. Applause broke out around the gym; I glanced around, surprised. I hadn't known we had an audience. Gladys joined me, grinning, as we pulled our head protectors off. Together, as if we had planned it, we took a bow to the assembled students.

"And that, folks, is why you don't piss off Harvey or Snow," announced the ROTC instructor. "At least, not when they've got a big stick at hand."

Laughter arose as we stepped off the mat. "Geez, Taylor, you were on fire out there," one of the guys complimented me. "Are you sure she's your best friend?"

"Only outside the ring," I informed him, to more laughter, handing off the staff to him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I need to take a shower."

"Soap?" requested Gladys, her hair full of suds. I handed her the soap, then took the shampoo.

"Thanks," she added. I began to lather up my own hair.

"No problem," I told her. "Sorry if I was a bit hard on you out there."

She shook her head, then sputtered as a little lather from her hair fell across her lips. "Pfft. No, it's not a problem. It's like you said. There's no friends in the ring. You get out there, and you win."

I smiled as I closed my eyes and ducked my head under the shower head to wash the lather out.

"Though you really were pushing hard today," she mused, soaping herself up. "Issues?"

"Kind of," I admitted.

"Problems with Andrea?" she asked, probing cautiously.

I shook my head, wet strands of my hair whipping about. "Oh god no. She's the only thing keeping me sane. It's Kingsley, my Criminology professor. He's refusing to let me present my final paper as it is. Says my conclusions are all wrong, but won't give me a viable alternative."

Gladys ran her hands over her face, pushing her wet hair back, as she stared at me. "You're fucking kidding me."

"I shit you not," I assured her, turning off the shower and reaching for my towel.

"And you can't appeal this or something?" she asked.

I sighed. "I can't prove discrimination, not without something to hang it on. A professor is allowed to think that a student's work isn't up to scratch. That's basically his job. But he dislikes me for some reason. I just don't know what for."

She turned off her own shower, and began to dry her hair. "Maybe you're approaching this all wrong."

I turned to her, quizzically. "How so?"

"You've always been the best tactician I know of," she told me, briskly rubbing her head. "With that tape deck of yours. And afterward, without. Just closing your eyes and going away for a little bit, then opening them and having the plan all laid out. Right?"

I nodded, squeezing the water out of my own hair. "Yeah, so?"

She paused in her drying efforts. "So apply tactics to this. Go wherever you go, and find out how to beat this guy at his own game."

It was like the sun had come out. She was so very, very right. Why the hell hadn't I asked Lisa about this?

For that matter, why hadn't she told me whatever the solution was?

Because she needed me to ask. I needed to make that connection. Right.

I dropped my towel and hugged her, then kissed her soundly. "Gladys, you're a genius."

"Right, right." She grinned at me. "Not that I don't like you, Taylor, but you might want to let me go, before people come in and get the wrong idea."

I giggled. "Oh, okay." Letting her go, I stepped back and retrieved my towel. Gladys seemed to be a little embarrassed by the incident; I supposed I may have been as well, before I met Andrea. "Sorry. But what you said was so right."

She shook her head and smiled at me. "That's okay. You were excited." She tilted her head. "But are you sure you're not into girls? You were awfully huggy and kissy, just then."

I stuck my tongue out at her.

The roar of the motorcycle engine was loud in my ears. I settled down over the fuel tank, or what I assumed to be the fuel tank, and twisted the throttle wide open. Heads-up displays spilled across the interior of my helmet visor. Picking out a single menu, I selected it by eye, and immediately the sound dampers cut in, reducing the engine noise to bearable levels.

Lisa lay astride a similar bike, alongside me. She wore racing leathers similar to mine, although her theme recalled her Tattletale costume, while mine looked remarkably Skitter-like. The motorbike itself had the lines of a jet fighter, or a space shuttle, all smooth curves and raked-back fairings. LEDs rippled back and forth along the side of the chassis, and within the engine itself, for no apparent reason other than to make it look twenty percent more awesome.

We raced along a smooth road, cutting through rugged terrain of rocks and scrubby clumps of grass. I leaned the bike to take a corner, and the HUD indicated that the active tyre treading was coming online to handle the extra load.

"Just up ahead," Lisa told me via the helmet radio. "Get ready."

Moments later, I spotted the first bogey; a blocky craft, hovering on some sort of jet propulsion. It swooped in over the road, an ugly-looking cannon swivelling to aim at us.

"On it," Lisa reported laconically, as twin cannons unstowed themselves from alongside the front wheels of her bike. They canted skyward, and spat fire. The craft detonated in midair, scattering shrapnel far and wide. "Scratch one."

I spotted the next one on bike radar, coming in hard from the left. Lisa wasn't in position to get it.

Immediately, I put the bike into a slide; Lisa, divining my intent, accelerated and pulled ahead.

The bike cannon could not swivel sideways normally, but in this instance, with the entire bike turned at ninety degrees, it was amazing what one could manage.

The enemy craft was just lining up to shoot when my targeting pipper intersected its course. I mashed the Fire button, and blew it to pieces. Scratch two.

I was still sliding sideways, but I engaged the active treads; they gripped the road and gave me extra traction. Gyros got me back on to my wheels again, and I put on the power to catch up with Lisa.

So much for the welcome wagon, I told her. What's next?

"The big boys," she warned me. "In three."

I counted down silently in my head, and at 'zero', we topped the rise ahead of us, going airborne in the process.

Ahead were a whole lot more adversaries, all robotic. Some hovered on underjets, while others moved around on wheels, tracks or legs. All were turning to aim weapons at us.

We were currently airborne, which is not a good place for a motorcycle to be in a hostile environment. But at a simultaneous command, both of our cycles ceased being cycles.

On 'zero', just as we went airborne, I had given the command for my bike to go to secondary mode; it pulled itself apart, and rebuilt itself in midair, wrapping itself around me to form a suit of powered armour. My helmet integrated itself with this, and a whole new suite of HUD readouts sprang up on the interior of the visor.

The bike cannon had ended up on the arms of the suit, and we were both firing before we hit the ground. Leg-jets slowed our fall, and our fire tracked over the airborne opponents. One after another, even as fire sleeted past our armoured forms, we blew them apart in gouts of debris.

Once on the ground, we were faced with what is commonly known as a 'target-rich environment'. I was well versed in fire-and-move tactics, and Lisa obviously had a good grounding in it as well. We couldn't avoid all the incoming rounds, but our suits were equipped with basic force shields that took the edge off the enemy fire.

I fired, spun, covered Lisa, fired again, crouched to allow one landcrawler to destroy another with an ill-aimed shot, fired again, leaped on to the landcrawler to wrench its turret off, leaped off again …

The battle was over in a few minutes; I stood there panting, listening to the creaks and pops of my armour's heat sinks slowly cooling. Lisa came to stand beside me, observing the havoc which we had wrought. She popped her helmet visor, and I did the same.

"Nicely done," she praised me. "I got the impression you needed to shoot something."

I grinned. That fit the bill, all right.Thanks.

Her vulpine smile answered me. "That's all right. It was a lot of fun. You've been kind of stressed recently."

I eyed her. And you know why.

She nodded, unabashed. "But I needed you to ask me. I can't hand you every solution on a silver platter."

I suppose … I answered grudgingly. Not that I'm still not pissed over the Andrea thing.

She rolled her eyes. "She was the best thing for you," she pointed out. "Still is. If you weren't with her, you'd be a lot more stressed right now. So I had to … facilitate."

I know, I know, you're right, I agreed. But just because you're right doesn't mean I can't still be annoyed at you.

She giggled. "Okay, so long as we've got that straight. So, your problem with stress."

I nodded. Kingsley.

"Yeah," she agreed. "You're gonna have to do your research on this one."

What? I gasped in simulated shock. It's not already in my memory palace?

"Sure it is," she told me. "But it's probably better if you find it on your own."

I paused, waiting. When she didn't continue, I made a 'go on' gesture.

In return, she pulled a tablet from a thigh compartment of her armour and handed it to me. "It's all on here."

I scanned the screen. There were the usual stock and racing tips, and then right down at the bottom, just a few lines.

Brockton Bay Bulletin.

17 July, 1975.

Page 6.

I looked up at her. This is where I'll find what I need to know?

She spread her hands. "Maybe." But her grin said yes.

You're enjoying this, aren't you? I grumbled, but my heart wasn't in it.

"Uh huh," she told me cheerfully. "I've got to get back to the palace. Want to come with? I've added a new wing."

Regretfully, I shook my head. I'll check on it next visit, I assured her. Thanks for the shoot-em-up, and this information. Whatever it is.

"That's cool," she told me. "Give Andrea a hug for me. Kiss before you go?"

I kissed her; her lips tasted, as always, of dust and blood. At the same time, I closed my eyes …

… and opened them to look into Andrea's eyes.

"Hey, you," she greeted me softly, her lips curving into a smile.

"Hey, you," I responded.

We lay side by side on our shared bed, not two feet apart. In my hands I held a pen and pad, upon which was written the information that Lisa had given me.

"It's always weird watching you do that," she told me with a grin. "Talking to Lisa … it's really real, inside your head, isn't it?"

I nodded. Ever since I had told Andrea about Lisa coming with me into the past, she had understood my trances and my dreams a lot more. Telling her about the escapades that we got up to was an endless source of amusement for her; the chicken gun, the zeppelin battles, the velociraptor wrangling, they all left her laughing helplessly.

"She said to give you a hug," I noted, and proceeded to suit action to word. Andrea didn't object that I noticed; hugging was something she could get right on board with.

"I like her more and more," she told me, once we disengaged. "Especially since she set it up so that we'd be together." This was another thing that amused her greatly, especially since I was less than pleased at being so manipulated.

I rolled my eyes. "I like being with you, Andrea. Don't think I don't. It's just that … I hate it when I find out that I never had a choice in matters."

She nodded sympathetically. "Well, at least it's all to the good," she pointed out. "So, what do we have for today?"

I tore off the top sheet of the pad, then tore off the strip of paper that held the newspaper information. "This is yours," I told her, handing her the top bit, "and this is mine."

"What's that for?" she asked curiously.

"Lisa says it will help with Kingsley," I explained.

"Well, if it's anywhere near as good as the stock tips, I'd check it out as soon as possible," she advised me.

I climbed off the bed, and started looking around for my pants. "Just what I thought," I agreed. "I'll bus it over to the library, while you're working on our financial empire."

"Bring back whatever you find," she told me. "I want to see, too."

I leaned over and kissed her. "It's a deal."

Andrea stared at the photocopied newspaper article. "Holy crap," she murmured. "So that's what it's all about."

I nodded. "That's it, all right. That's the reason, right there."

She looked up at me. "So what are you going to do? How do you even use something like that?"

I grinned. "I know someone. A friend of a friend."

"Really?" she asked. "Someone I know?"

"Not yet," I told her. "But I'll introduce you." I grinned. "You two have something in common."

The train pulled in to the station as Andrea and I waited impatiently with Danny.

"Thanks for doing this," I told him for about the tenth time.

"Hey, if I can't help my, uh, foster sister out every now and again, what sort of brother would I be?"

I grinned up at him, and elbowed him gently. "Thanks, Dad," I told him, very quietly.

He looked startled, then gave me a mock glare. Andrea was grinning broadly; she'd heard what I'd said.

"Don't do that," he muttered. "I'm still not quite sure that I believe it."

"You don't have to," I assured him. "I'll still like you whether you do or not."

He went to reply, but just then a voice called out to us.

"Danny! Taylor! Over here!"

We turned and looked, and there was Alan Barnes, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, pushing his way through the crowd. His red hair flamed in the sunlight, and he grinned widely at the sight of us.

"Alan!" Danny greeted him. He came together with his friend; hugging, back-slapping and shaking hands vigorously. Alan turned to me next, holding out his hand. I shook it, feeling the power in his grip.

"Christ, Taylor, you've grown," he told me. "Nearly as tall as the beanpole there."

"Hey hey hey," I warned him. "I'm a bit of a beanpole too, remember."

He chuckled and ruffled my hair, before turning to Andrea. "I don't believe we've met. Alan Barnes, attorney at law – almost."

"Andrea Campbell," she responded. "How are you, Mr Barnes?"

"Call me Alan," he insisted. "Danny's mentioned you. So you're Taylor's girlfriend, are you?"

"I think it's more that I'm her girlfriend," I corrected him with a grin.

He nodded, taking that in. "So … how's Dot taking that?" he asked shrewdly.

Danny looked uncomfortable; I decided to make it very simple. "She's not," I told Alan bluntly. "What I do in my time is my business, and if I'm not welcome back there, it's her loss, not mine."

"Well said," he applauded me. "So, what's this business you called me here for anyway?"

"Why don't we get back to our apartment first?" I suggested. "That way, we can sit down and discuss the matter in private."

It didn't take long to grab his luggage, and then we were on our way.

"Okay," Alan commented, perusing the photocopies I had made, "it seems pretty clear. Back in 'seventy-five, his wife was all about women's rights. He supported her, right up until she left him for a commune, where she shacked up with another woman." He looked up at me. "So you're independent, you know what you want, and you've got Andrea. That's three for three. I'm not surprised he doesn't really like you, even if he's not sure why himself."

"Okay ..." I sipped at my cup of tea. "Can we threaten him with a discrimination lawsuit? Get him off my back?"

He shrugged. "Oh, sure. It'd take the right lawyer, but in about six to twelve months we could wear down the college to the point that they'd give us a payout just to get us off their backs. But they'd never accept you back as a student after that."

I grimaced. "That's the exact opposite of what I want." With a groan, I leaned back on the sofa, and Andrea put her arm around me comfortingly. I leaned against her.

"Okay." Alan put the papers down, automatically straightening them. "What do you want?"

"I want to graduate by December," I said automatically. I didn't add the reason why, because Alan wasn't in on the secret yet. Nor would he ever be; I recalled his older self all too well.

"Oh, that's easy then," he said with a smile. "Write the paper Kingsley wants. He gives it a glowing review, you graduate at the end of the semester, and you never have to worry about him again. Win-win." His tone of voice seemed to ask why I was wasting his time on such an elementary question.

"But then that piece of dreck is there on my public record," I protested. "Kingsley believes stuff about parahumans that just isn't true. That's why he's rejecting my paper. If I write that and it gets published, I'll look like an idiot in five or ten years."

"Oh?" Alan sat up. "You've got my interest now. Do you have the paper here?"

I nodded. "I've got my latest draft, sure." Disengaging myself from Andrea, I got up from the sofa and went to collect the ring-binder which contained the latest version of the contested paper. Hardcopies, I had found, were the best way to find errors.

"Thanks," he said when I gave it to him. He settled back to read it while I sat back on the sofa. I sipped tea, and ate cookies which Andrea fetched from the kitchen. Alan nibbled one absently, turning pages on autopilot while he read my work. I found myself unaccountably nervous; what if he rejected it too?

It was nearly fifteen minutes by the wall clock by the time he put it down. I wouldn't have been able to tell by my heart-rate; to me, it had felt like hours. "So?" I asked cautiously. "What do you think?"

He shook his head. "It's brilliant," he said flatly. "Pure fucking brilliance. Right there on paper. I wish I could write something nearly as good. You're right. We can't let this just vanish into obscurity."

"Told you," Danny said unexpectedly. "She's smarter than I'll ever be."

I shot him a smile of thanks for the compliment, but my expression was serious as I turned back to Alan. "So what do I do? Kingsley won't accept the core concept of that paper, and without that I can't graduate."

He pondered for a moment, tapping the paper. "Taylor, let me ask you a serious question. Have you ever deliberately lost in your life?"

I blinked at him. "I ... don't understand what you're saying."

He chuckled warmly. "Didn't think so. You have the air of someone for whom losing happens to other people. Well, losing can sometimes be part of a strategy toward winning. So here's what you'll do ..."

He spoke, and I listened.

Professor Kingsley looked up in irritation as I entered his office. "Miss Snow," he stated firmly, "I have told you that my judgement is final. Your conclusions are based on faulty data."

I nodded as meekly as I knew how. "I know, sir," I said. "I've been over it, and I've realised where I was going wrong." Pulling a document envelope from my handbag, I slid it across the desk. "Here's the revised precis of my paper."

He frowned, looking up at me suspiciously. Putting his reading glasses on, he opened the unsealed envelope and pulled out the sheets from within. The frown only lasted halfway down the first page; by the end of the third page, he was beaming. Once he finished, he read over the synopsis once more, nodding a few times and making marks in the margins.

"That's much better, Miss Snow," he said, his voice warm with approval. "I've made some suggestions for improvements, but if you can write it to that outline, I will have no problem with it whatsoever."

Inhaling deeply through my nostrils, I nodded. "Thank you, sir," I said once I trusted myself to speak politely. "I'll get right on that."

Closing the office door quietly behind myself, I walked along the corridor, down the stairs, and out through the main entrance to where the other three were waiting.

"So?" asked Danny. "How did he take it?"

I tried not to grimace. "He loved it. Ate it up with a spoon." Turning to Alan, I nodded. "You were right. I wish you weren't, but you were."

"It's called strategic losing," he reminded me. "Like a queen sacrifice in chess. Just remember your next move."

"I won't forget," I said. "Are you sure a law review publication will print my paper?" It was an idea I'd never considered. Maybe I should've asked Lisa about it. Then again, she wasn't great at predicting my own successes.

He snorted. "You kidding? They'll eat it up. Especially given that it's written by an undergrad." He grinned at me. "Trust me, it'll get out there."

"Thanks," I said sincerely. "I really appreciate your help in this."

"So then you'll graduate?" asked Andrea, her eyes bright and interested.

I nodded. "Then I'll graduate."

She squealed, grabbed me, and kissed me hard. Then she grabbed Alan, and bestowed the same upon him, this time to his right cheek. I added a kiss of mine to his left cheek.

"Thank you," I told him fervently. "I appreciate it, so much."

He grinned back at the both of us, rubbing his cheeks where we had kissed him. "Best legal fees I never collected," he commented with a chuckle.

Danny slapped him on the shoulder. "I appreciate it, Alan. You gonna hang around, or do you want a lift back to the train station?"

Alan nodded. "No problem. A lift would be nice, thanks. Zoe'll be waiting up for me."

Andrea hugged me tightly. "You're gonna graduate, you're gonna graduate!"

"Not so fast," I warned her. "I still have to actually write the second paper, then polish the first one till it gleams."

"Pft!" she told me dismissively. "You haven't come so far to fall down on that. I won't let you."

I held her tightly. "I know," I murmured. "And thanks."

She snuggled into my embrace. "You're welcome."

-ooo-

13 December 1992

I opened the front door to let Danny and Anne-Rose in.

"So what's this all about?" asked Danny as I led them through to the living room. Gladys was already sitting on the sofa, chatting with Andrea.

"Proof," I told him briefly. "Have a seat. It'll be coming up shortly."

I went into the kitchen and emerged with a tray holding several glasses, and a couple of bottles of whiskey.

"This isn't you, Taylor," frowned Danny. "I remember the last time you got drunk. It didn't agree with you at all."

"Andrea says my drink was spiked," I reminded him, as I sat next to the redhead. She took my hand, and I squeezed it. "We're going to need these, in a moment."

The TV was already on, and I changed channels, to the one Lisa had told me to go to.

"I'd heard that there was some sort of earth tremor in the Middle East -" Anne-Rose ventured hesitantly.

I reached out and took her hand. She looked startled, then took a look at my expression, and her eyes widened. "Trust me," I told her softly. "Pour yourself a drink. You're going to need it."

Glass clinked against glass, and alcohol was poured out. Andrea sipped hers, then put it down. I did the same, feeling the bite of the liquor.

I turned the TV up.

" - live from the Marun Field in Iran, where a strange earth tremor has manifested into something else altogether. I'm aboard a news chopper, but we've been warned to stay far back by the Protectorate. We'll try to bring you images via telephoto lens."

The picture was jumpy and occasionally blurry, but it was possible to see the figures of the Protectorate, in their distinctive costumes, flying and standing, around the growing mound of disturbed earth and rock. Local parahumans were also scattered around, deferring to the American heroes. I caught a glimpse of Hero in his powered armour, and a lump rose in my throat.

We were so innocent, I told myself. We didn't know.

And then the mound split, and spilled away, and the top of his head emerged. Black, with obsidian horns, and the single glaring red eye. More earth was literally shouldered aside as an arm reached up, pulling the grotesque body from the ground.

Over the sudden tangle of voices from the TV, Danny gasped. "What the goddamn fuck is that thing?" Testament to his shock was the profanity, which I had rarely, if ever, heard him use.

"Behemoth," I told them, through the lump in my throat. Tears spilled down my face. "They'll call him Behemoth."

We watched, then, in silence, as the monstrosity, the first Endbringer, hauled himself out of the ground, and stood hunched over. The reporter was breathlessly describing the scene, speculating on what the thing was, what it wanted, where it was from -

And then Behemoth roared.

We literally saw the shockwave racing out from the distant creature, heard the shout of alarm from the pilot, saw the picture tilt crazily as he tried to turn the craft and flee.

All to no avail. The shockwave struck, the picture tumbling over and over. Sky, ground, sky, ground, over and over. A glimpse of a flailing human figure, spraying blood from where its face should be, a helicopter with its rotors windmilling uselessly as it tumbled over and over until it hit the ground.

And then the camera struck, and the picture went blank.

There was a very long pause before the transmission was renewed; a news anchor, sitting shocked and stunned at his desk. "We'll … we'll bring you more of that as it comes in," he croaked. The TV cut to an advertisement, and I turned it off.

"So that's it," I told them. "Now you know why I came back."

Danny stared at me, then picked up his glass and drained it. I held out the bottle, and he took a refill, the neck of the bottle chattering against the glass.

Anne-Rose was white as a sheet. "You knew that was going to happen?" she whispered.

I nodded. "Yeah."

"But – why didn't you - "

"Say something? Do something? Warn them?" I put down the bottle before I dropped it. "Say what, to whom? I'm safest, I can do what I have to, from behind the scenes."

Andrea was crying softly; I did my best to comfort her. She clung to me.

"You're going up against that?" she whimpered. "You'll die."

I shook my head. "Nope. I know where it's from, and I know how to stop it. All I need is the right time and opportunity."

Gladys put her hand on my shoulder. "You're nuts," she advised me. "You're absolutely nuts. But sign me up too."

Again, I shook my head. "No. Where I've got to go, what I've got to do, isn't for you. Get your degree. Be a teacher. Make sure Danny and Anne-Rose's kids get a square deal in school."

Slowly, she nodded. "But if you ever need help -"

I took her hand and squeezed it. "You'll be the first one I'll call on."

Later that night, as Andrea and I lay together in bed, she shifted a little.

"Taylor?" she mumured.

"Hmm?" I asked, moving so I could hold her closer.

"What you said to Gladys, about calling on her first?"

"Yeah?"

"What about me?" Her voice was lost, desolate.

I smiled and kissed her. "Sweetie, I'll never stop calling on you. Financial empire, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." She snuggled closer into my embrace.

"Now get some sleep. Tomorrow's gonna be a big day."

"Okay, Taylor."

And we slept.

End of Part 2-4