August 30, 2010

[...remember to talk to people, okay? It's a new school; you should make some friends.]

[Okay.] I said dutifully. [See you after work, then. I'll be back home for dinner.]

"Love you. Bye!" It was an interesting quirk, how Mom always said that last part in English. I waved as the electrician's van peeled out of the parking lot, then let out a breath. The prospect of the first day at school was strangely relaxing. After having my life turned upside down for the past week, something so mundane was a nice change of pace.

Not that plenty hadn't changed about this, too. Getting to Winslow had been a half-hour bus journey, assuming I didn't need to hop off to avoid an influx of tattooed skinheads. Arcadia, on the other hand, was close enough for my parents to drop me off on the way to work. It was merely five minutes from our apartment—our new apartment. While I was busy with power testing last Thursday, a bunch of plainclothes PRT agents had commandeered a moving truck and that was that. Let no one say the government didn't move fast when they really wanted to.

On an unrelated note, a disproportionate number of our new neighbors were muscular, martial-looking men and women. Hmm.

Arcadia High itself was a handsome brick building in the rough shape of an H. I crossed the well-manicured lawn to the front gates. The courtyard and entrance hall were bustling with students, all of them lined up behind a row of tables. Every table was piled high with papers and manned by a harried-looking teacher. From what I could tell they were handing out schedules, split alphabetically by last name.

Rather than look for the Z table, I slipped around the side of the crowd and into the school office. The hubbub outside died away as I closed the door behind me. "Good morning." I said to the secretary at the front desk. "I'm here to sort out my transfer." I held out my old Winslow ID card for inspection. He checked something on his computer; I must have passed muster because he nodded and led me into the back, knocking on a door. "Ma'am? One of the transfer students is here. The name's..." he winced. "uh, Z-h-i-q-i-a-n-g?"

"Ah yes. Come in." a woman said. My very first impression was that she looked like a skinnier version of Director Piggot. The black pantsuit, the bleached blonde hair, and even their handshake technique were the same. "Welcome to Arcadia, Mr. Zhou." Ha. That was one way around the name issue. "I'm Miss Howell, the principal here. My notes say you're in the PRT work-study program?"

"Yes ma'am." Officially, the principal didn't actually know I was a Ward. No one had flat-out told her that Zhou Zhiqiang and Blank were one and the same. Arcadia was what was known as a 'vocational school', meaning plenty of students left early for internships at Medhall or the bank...or the PRT. Unofficially, counter-cape paramilitary organizations weren't in the business of hiring random high school students, save for very specific reasons. I wasn't sure I liked this very much, but it was what it was. The PRT probably wasn't allowed to straight-up lie to the school about what we were doing, anyways.

Miss Howell inclined her head at me. "I wish you all the best, then. It may not be much, but we'll aim to ensure your time here is as pleasant as possible." She retrieved a thick envelope with my name on it, and walked me through its contents. My new Arcadia ID card. A student guidebook, with a lengthy appendix enumerating the school rules and the potential punishments for breaking them. "Now I understand you've come from Winslow—and far be it from me to speak ill of my colleague there," her tone implied it was not in fact all that far. "but fair warning, we enforce things more strictly here. Not that I think you'll be looking for trouble, but it can cause some culture shock."

"No, that sounds great." The principal blinked a little at that, but didn't comment any further. Instead she handed me a map and combination to my assigned locker, along with my class schedule. "And if anything at all comes up, my door is open." she finished. "It's the least we can do for you."

I thanked her, then left to go locate my locker. There was nothing I wanted to put in it yet, but I had some time to go before first period so I figured I might as well. Per the map, it was on the first floor of the south wing. On the way, I couldn't help but notice how clean the hallways were. I'd gotten used to the Winslow walls being daubed with swastikas, stylized 88s, red and green blotches, crudely drawn dragons, and fluids of dubious provenance. It seemed the principal's claim of strictness was no idle boast.

Also, I passed about a dozen white kids in the hall, and not one of them called me a slur. That was nice too.

Reaching the approximate area, I peered closely at the locker numbers until I found the right one. Click-click-click. The dial turned. 17. Click. 6. Click-click-click. 45. The locker door popped open. It was empty and smelled faintly of cleaning products. Nothing more than one would expect from a locker on the first day of school, really. Shrugging, I left it be and headed over to the third floor of the north wing. I'd taken long enough with finding everything that there were already a few students in Classroom 308.

One of them, a decidedly gallant-looking blond boy, waved me over. "Hey! You're new, aren't you?" he said. "I'm Dean, by the way."

"I'm Zhiqiang, but you can call me ZQ." I replied with a distinct sense of déjà vu. The subsequent conversation filled in a few details we'd missed at our first meeting. Gallant—well, right now he was plain old Dean—was a junior, like me. We had two classes together, Calculus AB right now and AP World History tomorrow. Also, according to him my class list was 'intense'. Which, okay, maybe I'd gone overboard with the AP classes since Winslow didn't offer any, and maybe taking on all this plus my new job was excessive. On the other hand, those college apps wouldn't write themselves and hey, it wasn't like I ever had weekend plans.

When I mentioned that to Dean, he muttered something like "if you say so" and dropped the topic. Fine by me.

At 7:29 AM, a minute before the bell, a familiar redhead sauntered through the door. "Hey Dean! And hey, uh, new kid I've never met!" Dennis said with a wink. "Fancy seeing you here!"

His acting skills could've used some work.

"Seriously, I've heard stories about Warner, but what the hell?" Dennis complained as we headed out of first period. "Did he get lost on the way to his kindergarten class?"

"I don't think they teach calc in kindergarten." Dean pointed out.

I was of mixed opinions. Yes, it had been surreal and slightly uncomfortable when Mr. Warner started making cutesy choo-choo train noises while drawing on the blackboard. That said, I doubted any of us would forget that a derivative represented the instantaneous rate of change now, so maybe there was a method to his madness.

I didn't have any more classes with the Wards that day. Spanish was my second period, where we did a refresher on the preterite. It wasn't the most popular foreign language in the Bay by a long shot, but I already knew Chinese, while German and Japanese had tended to attract gang members of opposite alignments. The Spanish kids at Winslow had been more or less chill however (barring a couple of Merchants), and since I had two years under the belt I decided to stick with it here. Who knew, maybe I could use it to impress Aegis or something.

AP Comp Sci came after that. I'd half-expected to find Kid Win there, but nope. Then again, it'd probably be a waste for an actual Tinker to sit through a lesson on how to write Hello World. It wouldn't surprise me if they had Chris taking college-level math and science already.

When the clock struck noon, I was making my way through the cafeteria, lunch tray held in one hand and balanced precariously against my cast. At first I fell back to Winslow instincts, scanning the room for empty spots a safe distance from anyone in gang colors. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dean waving again. Huh—so he wasn't just being polite when he said I was welcome at his table, then. The entire Arcadia Wards contingent was with him: Carlos, Dennis and Chris. Dean directed me to the seat next to him at the end of table, across from a girl with frizzy brown hair—

Oh. That was Panacea. Her eyes widened, clearly recognizing me and my power. "Guys, this is ZQ. He's a new friend from work." Dean was saying. "ZQ, meet Eric—" he gestured to a boy with dyed blue hair, who had to be Shielder by process of elimination (he certainly wasn't Glory Girl). "—and Amy."

I set my tray down. "We've met." I said, nodding at the healer. "Thanks for the advice, by the way. It's been useful."

Amy gave me a faint smile at that, something she most certainly hadn't done at our previous encounter. "Glad it helped."

Given the raised eyebrows among some of the Wards, they were pretty curious about that story, but no one asked us to elaborate. Eric was different. "What the heck, Amy?" he burst out. "You gave him advice, but you didn't fix his arm?"

Amy glared at him. "Underlying condition that complicates healing. Doctor-patient privilege, can't say more."

"Aw man, that sucks. Get well soon." Despite the flimsiness of the excuse, Eric's tone was nothing but sympathetic. I wondered if he was extra-committed to the spirit of the unwritten rules, or just a little slow on the uptake.

Regardless, I was about to thank him for the well-wishes when a sudden clamor arose among the lunch crowd. A blonde girl had just come flying through an open window, holding a cafeteria tray. Mingled gasps and cheers greeted her arrival; I even saw a few freshmen recording the scene on their phones. Even I stared for a second, before managing to match the face to the wiki image. Glory Girl, you drama queen. That window was nowhere near where the lunch line came out, and furthermore, what was wrong with simply walking? The New Wave cape flew closer to our table, and I abruptly realized we might have a problem. So did Amy. "Vicky, wait—" she began.

Too late. Glory Girl hit the null field legs first. She tipped over in mid-air, unbalanced by her lower body suddenly becoming dead weight, and from that point disaster was inevitable. Her tray came loose from her hands, skipped off an invisible surface, and splattered its contents over Carlos (Eric avoided the same fate by projecting a blue force field). She scarcely had time to shout in surprise before, like Icarus flying too close to the sun, she crashed onto the table with an almighty thud. Glory Girl skidded face-first down its length, flinging our lunches all over the place. Needless to say, the entire student body was staring at us now if they hadn't been already.

I sighed. This secret identity thing seemed to be hanging by a thread already.

"Vicky, you idiot!" Amy scolded. "I can't believe you tripped!"

"Ow." Vicky groaned. "Huh? I...I didn't—"

Amy coughed. "I said." she repeated more loudly. "I can't believe you tripped!"

I wasn't sure Vicky got the point, but she didn't argue it either. "Uh...sure. Can I, like, get a heal here?"

Amy gave me a meaningful look. I took the hint, and stepped away on the pretext of wiping some mashed potatoes off my pants. The rest of the cafeteria realized a cape fight wasn't breaking out and gradually went back to their business. "Didn't even break anything, you big baby." I heard her grumbling.

"I'm not used to how much pain hurts, okay?!"

We had to take a timeout here to clean up (sadly, none of the New Wave capes possessed janitorial-related powers) and retrieve more lunch. Dennis complained at length about having to eat school food, though I didn't see the big deal. Cafeteria fare fulfilled all basic nutritional needs, and in my opinion it even tasted all right—as my parents were low-income enough to qualify me for free lunch, I naturally fancied myself a connoisseur. No one was nearly foolhardy enough to swipe the capes' table, so we ended up settling back into the same seats. Vicky took the spot next to Amy with some reluctance, casting a furtive look my way. "Sorry again about that." I told her. At least Panacea's healing didn't seem to have come undone—possibly because Amy had only restored her to her previous condition, rather than giving her extra heads and limbs and junk.

"Not your fault. I only tripped, after all." Her reply wasn't exactly hostile, but not exactly pleased either. I doubted Glory Girl and I would become best friends anytime soon. Still, we had enough polite small talk in us to learn each other's basic biographical details. I finally figured out the New Wave family tree: Vicky and Amy (both seniors) were adoptive sisters, while Eric (freshman) was their cousin, as was the college-aged Laserdream. Also, Vicky and Dean were apparently dating, which made me really skeptical of how secret Gallant's identity really was. After that, though, I faded out of the conversation. Vicky had stuff to say to Amy, and stuff to say to Dean (Amy and Dean didn't interact much, funnily enough), while I had scarcely any idea of what these people who'd known each other for years were talking about. This was the point where I started to miss my days of eating lunch alone, when I could bug off to read a book without coming across as rude. Frankly, I was relieved when Carlos looked at his phone and declared we should be heading out.

"Well, nice meeting you. I should get to class!" Judging from how quickly she vacated the scene, so was Vicky.

Our ostensible 'internship' at the PRT entitled us to skip the last class period of each day. This, out of everything about the Wards program, was the point my parents had most strongly objected to. It had taken a follow-up call with the Director to reassure them that yes, being a Ward would count as class credit and no, I wouldn't receive a letter grade, meaning I couldn't tank my GPA by failing to arrest enough bad guys. Apparently the Youth Guard took a dim view of encouraging delinquency and child endangerment.

Another pertinent question was how to safely transition from civilian to cape mode. It would be suspicious for Blank to be seen leaving Arcadia, but it also seemed suspicious for Zhiqiang to be showing up to PRT HQ every day. Thankfully, Dean solved the conundrum for me. "I can give you a ride if you need." he offered. "I usually take Chris anyways, so it's no extra trouble. We can, uh, put on our uniforms in the parking garage."

"I'd appreciate that." I said. Dean's car turned out to be a silver Cadillac, remarkably similar to Gallant's armor in color. An expensive brand, per my understanding; I presumed his family was pretty well off. It felt uncouth to inquire, though, so I stayed quiet. A minute later Chris caught up to us, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"Is your armor in there?" The bag seemed too small and too easily carried to contain a full-body suit of metal armor. Then again, 'seemed' counted for very little when it came to Tinkertech.

Chris grinned. "Yep. So Armsmaster's pretty good at making things small..."

The Wards' work day began at 1 PM on the dot. To my mild bemusement, we kicked the week off with a team meeting at base.

"Just a short standup." Triumph explained to me. "Everyone confirms their schedule for the week, and we go over anything important from over the weekend." The schedules in question had been emailed to our Wards phones, telling us who was supposed to be on patrol or console at what time. Patrols were mostly in pairs, while console duty was a solo effort. Today Triumph and Shadow Stalker were assigned to Captain's Hill, Aegis and Gallant to Downtown South, Clockbocker and Vista to the Boardwalk, and Kid Win to the console. Shifts were supposed to start at 1:30, though there was no mention of an end time.

"How long do patrols take?" I asked.

"It varies, but generally two to four hours." said Triumph. "Depends on the route and how quiet things are that day."

I also noticed that not everyone was assigned the same number—for example Triumph was patrolling on all five weekdays, but Kid Win only on two. Not, of course, that I was in any position to judge. "Hey, nothing for the new guy?" Vista wondered.

Triumph shook his head. "Director's orders. He's still on the mend and Panacea can't help him, so he'll just have to wait."

"Aww, that's too bad." Vista patted my shoulder consolingly. "Don't worry. You'll be fighting crime in no time."

Personally, I wouldn't mind waiting a little longer, not that I vocalized it.

"If there are no concerns with the schedule?" Triumph asked. There was a chorus of negatives. "Good. It was a pretty normal weekend, nothing that should affect patrols. The highlight was Purity fighting Lung yesterday, in the west Docks." Um, what? My old place had been in the west Docks; seemed we'd ditched the neighborhood at a good time. Clockblocker whistled lowly. "Looks like she was going after an ABB depot, and he happened to be nearby. They leveled the whole building. Six ABB members dead, no civilian casualties. Purity had to retreat in the end, though with her power it's hard to tell if she was hurt." Damn. I felt a smidgen of displeasure that both villains had come out in more or less one piece. "Worth noting she didn't have any backup, cape or normal. That supports the rumors of a rift with the Empire."

Aegis crossed his arms. "Empire or not, she's still a Nazi."

"Seeing as she's only targeted the ABB lately, I'd say it's likely." Triumph agreed. "Also yesterday, the Undersiders—"

He never did tell us what the Undersiders (whoever they were) had done, because at that moment the door alarm went off. We all turned to face the door, awaiting the ten-second countdown; if the base designer had intended to cause suspense whenever someone tried to enter, they couldn't have done a better job. When it finally opened, my first instinct was that a costumed villain had somehow infiltrated PRT HQ. They were clad in midnight black from head to toe, and covered in a ominous hooded cloak. Over their face, they wore a metal mask fixed in a stern scowl. "Shadow Stalker. Good to have you back." Triumph's flat tone didn't make it sound particularly good. "You're late."

This was Shadow Stalker? I understood now what Glenn Chambers had meant about black costumes looking villainous, and also, what the hell had he been smoking when he signed off on that? "Yeah, yeah. Nothing I can't get from PHO, anyways." she said flippantly, before noticing the stranger in the room. "Who the hell is that?"

"That's Blank. Our new teammate?" Shadow Stalker showed no sign of recognition, eliciting a sigh from Triumph.

"You don't check your email at all, do you?" Aegis said tartly.

"Hey, I read the important ones. And I didn't see any Blank on the patrol schedule. What gives?" she addressed me, somewhat mockingly. "Power can't even handle a Boardwalk run?"

Okay, I already didn't like her. Admittedly my expectations for Shadow Stalker had been low, but this was still disappointing. Clockblocker started snickering. "Oh man. You would not say that if you'd been here for power testing."

"Really now." Shadow Stalker...well, stalked towards me, like a predatory beast taking the measure of a potential meal. The animal part of my brain wanted me to step back, but I dismissed it. Irrational. She was hardly about to assault me in front of everyone. "Well, new kid, what do you say we take it outside? Go a couple rounds?"

Triumph cleared his throat. "That's inappropriate, Shadow Stalker."

"It's just banter." she said dismissively. "Besides, I was talking to him. Hey, you can talk, right? Or—"

"Yes." I said coolly. "And I'm pretty sure that would be against our contract." Section III of the Wards code of conduct clearly stated that Wards were not to engage in combat against each other, unless part of a Director-approved training regimen, and supervised by a Protectorate member or PRT officer of rank Captain or above.

Shadow Stalker scoffed at me. "What, are you going to snitch on me?"

"Yes." That seemed to take her by surprise, though I couldn't say why. Again, the rulebook clearly said that any violations should be reported to the Wards leader, in order to determine a suitable penalty. Though in this case there was no need, since Triumph was right here. "The world would be better if more capes followed the rules, don't you think?"

I didn't even know why I'd said that last bit. I became aware of a certain tightness in my stomach—this girl was getting on my nerves, more than I'd thought. "You're no fun. Damn boy scout." she ground out at last, stomping off to the other side of the common area. "Whatever. I'm going to go prep for patrol."

"I was never in the Scouts though." I muttered under my breath. You had to believe in God to join, as I understood, and while I could have maybe fudged it, I didn't want to disrespect their rules like that.

Just because I wasn't on patrol or console didn't mean I was free to loaf about. Aside from the patrol schedule, my inbox had filled up with a laundry list of virtual classes and trainings. Seeing as they wouldn't take themselves, I elected to retreat to my office and crank them out. As promised, a new door had appeared in the base with my cape name on it. Inside was a basic setup: chair, desk, computer, and storage shelf. There was also a bed, which I found passing strange. Perhaps it was meant for post-patrol naps, or the occasional all-nighter.

The one marked 'Welcome to the Wards' seemed like a reasonable place to start. Clicking that brought up a pre-recorded video message from none other than Legend himself, presumably filmed via drone camera. The Protectorate leader was floating high above New York City, with the spire of the Empire Statue Building visible behind him. A+ presentation, I had to say. He opened by thanking the viewers for joining the good fight, and reassuring us that whatever our history were were true heroes now. That was nice of him, though I wasn't sure how I felt about the implication that turncoat villains might join the Wards. Shadow Stalker had only been a vigilante, and she was grating enough. Legend went on to speak briefly about the Wards program and its purpose, and then he said something I thought was very interesting indeed.

"Sometimes, new capes wonder why the Protectorate reports to the PRT, and not the other way around. It's a normal question—people asked it when we founded the Protectorate, way back in '93. Alexandria and Eidolon were strong enough to do whatever they wanted, so why take orders from a civilian Director?" He had been smiling since the start of the video, but now he stoppped. An affectation, surely, but an effective one. "Because our powers equip us to serve humanity, protect humanity, but not rule humanity. Because in too many places around the world, I've seen what happens when we accept that might makes right, how people suffer when parahuman warlords play their game of thrones. I believed then, as I believe now, that capes should not wear crowns."

I found myself nodding along. Legend was a wise man indeed.

What now? 'PRT History & Organization' could be educational, a written primer on 'Unwritten Rules' sounded paradoxical, and 'The Birdcage & Kill Orders' was downright ominous. However, 'Guide to Your Local Cape Scene' seemed most relevant to matters at hand, so I clicked on that next. This turned out be a listing of every known cape within PRT ENE's jurisdiction. It was long list, and a depressing large percentage were villains. Knowing Brockton Bay had issues with law and order was one thing; reading the names of nearly forty super-powered criminals was another. Between the Protectorate, Wards, and New Wave there were only half as many heroes; I'd read somewhere the global ratio was more like one-third, which didn't make me feel better at all. The saving grace was that Empire aside, they didn't work in large groups, instead clustering into small teams or working solo.

Maybe it was because outsider capes avoided ABB territory, but I'd never even heard of most of these. Some of their names didn't even sound real. Newter? Mush? Tattletale? Who the hell named themselves that?

There was one name, Parian, who was designated neither hero nor villain but rogue. I checked her profile out of curiosity. Apparently she had the power to make animated cloth constructs, which made her in-demand as an advertiser and entertainer. Good for her, then. I could sympathize with her desire for a quiet life, though sadly my power wasn't nearly as monetizable. I wondered if she had ever had problems with gang recruiters. Maybe those constructs were tougher than they looked.

Briefly, I amused myself by imagining Kaiser being beaten up by a giant stuffed rabbit.

As I read through more cape profiles, I couldn't help but notice they were far more detailed than anything you could find on PHO. Given that they were probably based on first-hand info from various heroes, it made sense. There were exceptions, of course—the aforementioned Tattletale's page showed a blurry photo of a girl in a purple suit and nothing about her powers at all. Coil was even worse, with only a note explaining the PRT wasn't even sure if he was a parahuman, or a regular gang leader pretending to be one. For the most part, however, each cape had a fairly detailed breakdown of their powers, followed by an accounting of the fights they'd been in and the crimes they were suspected of.

Take Lung, for example. Every Asian in the Bay vaguely knew that his power turned him into a dragon. According the his PRT file, though, his real power was to grow stronger as a fight grew longer and more intense, with the 'dragon' form as a mere thematic quirk. Worryingly, it also stated he had no observed upper limit. There was a linked after-action report from 2009, when he'd planted his flag in Brockton Bay by soloing the entire local Protectorate. He'd even fought Leviathan on even footing at Kyushu, something I hadn't known about. The shaky recording showed two monsters clashing: one was a silver-scaled colossus with four wings, and the other was Leviathan.

Okay, it was admittedly understandable that the heroes didn't want to poke him. Still, it got me pondering the details of how my own power would interact with his ramped-up state. Would turn him entirely back to normal? Only the part in my field? The idea of a dragon with a pair of stubby human legs was ridiculous; how would the blood flow even work out? Reading about Fenja and Menja of the Empire, or Hellhound's dogs, raised the same question.

Speaking of the Empire, I presumed I could remove metal Kaiser's power created. Did he create his armor with his power too, and did that mean I could cause a scenario where the emperor literally had no clothes? And would Victor's ill-gotten skills be removed permanently, temporarily, or not at all? I could see a Panacea situation arising here, since there wasn't anything impossible about one man being good at a lot of stuff. At least he wouldn't be stealing anything of mine.

Newter of Faultline's crew made me do a double take. I'd heard rumors of 'monstrous capes', but it was still startling to see a bright orange humanoid newt on screen. He and his teammate Gregor the Snail were both so-called 'Case 53s', to use the politically correct term. Neither wore a mask, but given how they looked it would be pointless anyways. I clicked through to the main Case 53 article, and what I found there confused me even more. Not a single one of them remembered how they'd gotten into that state. Invariably, they were found in the wild with severe retrograde amnesia and a very specific tattoo. Given my parents' occupation, I thought of the ohm symbol immediately, but I doubted it was meant to indicate electrical resistance.

This seemed to imply that someone was deliberately doing it—mutating people, wiping their memories, and releasing them for purposes unknown. It sounded altogether too Simurgh-like for my comfort. Perhaps I could help solve this mystery, for science? Maybe I could restore Newter to a normal human, if he had been human to begin with. Or a normal newt. Or maybe he would just die horribly. The Manton Effect was supposed to protect against that sort of thing but it was hardly a universal law. It felt like the more capes I read about, the more questions popped up. A shame that I'd need to get unhealthily close to a lot of dangerous villains in order to—

"Yo! Still at it?" I nearly jumped out of my chair. Wasn't it rude to go into someone's room without asking?

Then again, this was more an office than a proper living space, and I didn't know the etiquette around that. So instead of snapping at the intruder, I calmly turned around to greet him. "Hey, Clock. Aren't you supposed to be on patrol?"

"Eh, the Boardwalk run always goes fast." I realized it was already quarter to four. "Want to join us on break?"

"I don't know, I should probably wrap up this bit." I still had to get through reading about the rest of Faultline's crew, then Über and Leet and the other minor independents.

Clockblocker had taken off his helmet, so I could clearly see him rolling his eyes. "Dude, it's your first week. Don't go all Armsmaster Jr. just yet."

"You know, Assault said the same thing."

"Well, Assault's a wise man." Clockblocker put on a faux-serious tone. "Blank. As the senior Ward present, I officially order you to come out and play video games."

"I don't think you have that authority." He might be older and more experienced, but only the designated Wards leader could actually give orders. Still, I let him lead me out into the common area. No sense needlessly antagonizing him over something so small. I could see Kid Win sitting at the console, a pair of headphones on his ears; I decided not to bother him. Vista was back as well, fiddling with the gaming console. The TV screen displayed some kind of cartoonish racecourse. "Uh, just so you know, I've never played before."

"You've never played Super Smash Kart? That's okay—"

"Never played video games." I clarified. Given our level of disposable income, it was safe to say a console or gaming PC would have been an outrageously extravagant expenditure.

"How—" Clockblocker began, then stopped himself. "Uh, no worries. Everyone starts somewhere." Handing me a controller, he instructed me to pick the green dinosaur character, which was apparently good for beginners. I sat and quickly read through the controls while waiting for him and Vista to customize their loadouts.

"So, uh, I wanted to say." Clockblocker spoke up again after a pause. "Sorry about Shadow Stalker. I'm pretty sure it was nothing personal; she's just like that."

"She seems..." I fished around for a tactful description. "...confrontational."

Clockblocker snorted. "You can say she's a bitch, it's fine."

"Clock!" Vista scolded him. "But yeah, she can be...hard to deal with. She was away at training camp to improve her attitude, but she didn't seem very improved today. When she joined—" The race was starting. On 'GO!', my cart exploded and started emitting smoke. "—oh, don't hold down accelerate too long at the start or that can happen. When she joined she kept complaining about how much better she had it as an independent. Stuff like how she could do solo patrols—"

"—in the middle of night—" Clockblocker chimed in.

"—in the heart of Empire territory—"

"—uphill in the snow, both ways."

I oversteered on a corner, crashed into a giant pipe, and took a moment to remember what button was reverse. "Why did she even join the Wards, then?"

"Officially, because she 'regretted her unlawful actions' and 'wanted to make amends'" A scoff indicated what Clockblocker thought of that. "Unofficially, I hear she nearly crossbowed a guy to death and it was this or juvie."

Initially, I wasn't sure why hearing this bothered me so. I knew for sure it wasn't because I felt much sympathy for whatever Nazi or drug dealer she had skewered. "That sounds unfair." I finally said. "If she wasn't a cape, she'd just go to jail."

Vista grimaced. "Yeah, I hear you. But, I mean, at least she does some good this way." I wasn't sure I agreed. Assigning a cape with no respect for the law to enforce the law sounded unwise, but perhaps it was just me. "And, uh, I guess she'd just break out of most jails?"

"There's the Birdcage, isn't there?"

Clockblocker swiveled to stare at me, wide-eyed. In his distraction, his cart veered off a cliff only to be winched up by a turtle riding a cloud. "Uh...harsh, dude."

"What?"

"Um, you might not know this," Vista began hesitantly. "but going to the Birdcage is kind of permanent. As in, no one's ever been let out. Some say even Dragon can't do it."

"Oh..." As a matter of fact, I did not, and who could blame me? It wasn't how prisons normally worked. I was generous enough to allow that Shadow Stalker didn't quite deserve to be thrown into parahuman Alcatraz for all eternity. Probably. What was even the point of keeping the inmates alive if they were going to trapped forever? Maybe it was a PR thing—get the benefits of rendering them dead for all intents and purposes, while avoiding the the optics of handing out Kill Orders like candy. "Forget what I said, then."

Both other Wards relaxed and went back to the game. Phew—that could have turned ugly. Clockblocker swiftly changed topics, laughing just a tad louder than was necessary. "Ha! Eat green shells, Missy!"

August 31, 2010

I had to admit, Glenn Chambers worked fast. Four days after we'd discussed my costume, here I was wearing it. To be fair, that was probably because it looked a lot like a PRT uniform that had been recolored and adjusted to fit me better, resulting in a bulk midway between Clockblocker's skintight outfit and a standard trooper's. It was made of thick gray fabric from head to toe, with attached boots and armor plating over the vital parts. The Image rep I spoke to assured me that even the unarmored portions would still stop knives and low-caliber bullets.

I must have looked skeptical, because she promptly had the display mannequin moved to the adjacent firing range and cajoled a nearby trooper into firing a couple shots at it. That was surprisingly hardcore for a designer, although it did convince me she knew what she was talking about.

There were two relatively unique features, one a white null symbol printed upon the chest armor, and the other the helmet's faceplate. Instead of a standard visor, it was made from one-way glass, so that anyone trying to view my face would only see their own. When Chambers talked about people wanting me to reflect their own hopes, I hadn't expected him to take it in such a literal direction.

Still, overall I was satisfied with how it had turned out. If it stopped a bullet I would have been happy to wear a clown suit.

After that, I was shuffled off to my first combat training. As a new cape, I was expect to attend any day I didn't have other duties, until my performance was deemed adequate. In practice, this meant a two-hour PE class almost every day. Joy. My assigned instructor was one Sergeant Callahan, who looked every bit as grizzled as his name and title would indicate. Contrary to stereotype, he neither called me a maggot nor unfavorably compared my physique to his grandmother's, though he certainly was gruff. The first part of the class was dedicated to an overview of standard PRT field equipment. In quick succession, Callahan demonstrated the basic operation of stuff like field radios, zip ties, Tasers, pepper spray, and confoam grenades, before having me imitate him.

I pointed out confoam didn't work on me, and he retorted that that didn't stop me from throwing it at other people, which was fair. I would have to be careful to let my allies handle any foamed enemies, that was all.

"No guns?" I asked at the end. Despite the fact that PRT troopers prominently carried assault rifles, I noticed he hadn't mentioned firearms at all.

Callahan grunted. "People don't like capes using guns."

"What about Miss Militia?" I pointed out.

"Eh, that's different." he shrugged, seeming not to care much about the topic. "Look, it's out of my pay grade. Take it up with the Director, or Armsmaster."

The second hour was devoted to actual physical activity. Since my arm was still busted, I was spared from the customary hand-to-hand drills. Instead, there was running. Lots of running, alternating between short sprints and longer periods of sustained jogging. This was something I took seriously. If, heaven forbid, I got into a real cape fight (or worse a real normal fight), I knew that how fast I got behind cover or ran away from a bad situation could be life and death. Now, I wasn't un-fit per se, but not what you would call fit either—my old neighborhood wasn't the kind of place you could go out for a casual run—and by the end of the hour, I could tell I'd be feeling this in the morning. I was glad I'd taken advice from the other guys and worn workout clothes under my costume. According to them it was a pain to clean sweat from the inside.

Although...now that I'd been wearing it for a while, a different costume-related question came to mind.

"Hey, guys? How, uh, how do you go to the bathroom in costume?"

"Just pee in the suit." Clockblocker declared without a hint of shame.

"Don't lie to the new guy, Clock." Aegis admonished him. "Go before patrol, or find a public bathroom on the route. And if all else fails, I'm not proud of this but..." he dropped his voice. "there are a lot of deserted alleys around."

September 1, 2010

I was so not ready for this. I had had powers for all of ten days—ten days! In what other industry would less than two weeks of work experience entitle me to take responsibility for other people's lives? It was typical of our society, of the way we mythologized people just because they'd had a bad day and grown some kind of weird brain tumor. I would have expected a PRT Director, of all people, to be above such delusions, but apparently not.

Well. Things were what they were, and I would just have to try my hardest not to get my coworkers killed.

"Aegis and Kid Win checking in. Turning onto Islington Street."

I licked my dry lips. "Acknowledged."

Vista gave me a thumbs up. "You're doing great." she said encouragingly. I felt a little pathetic for needing validation from a middle schooler. I reminded myself she had a year and a half of seniority on me, and that lessened the feeling a bit. "Welcome to console duty. What do you think?"

I envied her casual tone. My eyes kept flicking over the various monitors and lights, expecting any moment to hear a frantic call about the Simurgh robbing a bank, or something equally outlandish. "Honestly? I'm not sure I should be here."

Vista nodded fervently. "Yeah, I get it. I'd rather be on patrol myself."

Hmm, no, I didn't think she got it at all. "No—I mean, it's only my first week and this seems pretty important." The official Wards Console guidebook made it sound that way at least. "We're supposed to route the others towards emergencies, forewarn them of any risks and—"

"Oh, it's not that bad." Vista assured me. "Wards handle Wards, yeah, but all the public calls get routed through PRT dispatchers first. Plus we've got Protectorate Console covering—if anything really serious happens they'll jump in."

"And how often does that happen?"

"Not that often. Wards patrol routes aren't exactly secret, and villains aren't stupid." Vista scowled. "Usually all we get is stuff like—"

One of the console lights turned on. I held up a finger for quiet, then pushed a button to let the call through. "PRT Dispatch to Wards Console. Robbery reported in progress, 119 Lincoln Avenue. Multiple armed suspects, multiple hostages, no sign of capes. Over."

Okay. Okay. I knew what to do here. I pushed a different button to transmit to all patrollers and relayed the message. "Gallant, Clockblocker, looks like you're closest." I finished.

"I copy, Console. On our way." Gallant replied.

"Kick their butts, Gallant!" Vista added, before resuming our prior conversation. "Stuff like that. And I always get the boring routes, too, because god forbid the little girl sees too much action. Like, don't you think I can take care of myself?" I nodded absent-mindedly, which turned out to be the correct response. "See, you get it! I'm Shaker 9, and I only fight a villain every other week or so. There was Rune last Tuesday, and Über and Leet two weeks before that, but no one who really matters." She paused. "Well, except that time I got stabbed by Hookwolf."

"You what?"

Vista puffed up proudly. "Yep! Even sewed it up myself."

"Uh..." I was starting to get the sense that Vista was, like Shadow Stalker, excessively gung-ho about the whole cape business. At least she was far nicer about it. "Don't we have medics for that?"

"I didn't want to be a baby." she pouted. Oh, of course, because only babies would seek professional medical help for a serious knife injury. "And it was only a flesh wound. Stupid plastic didn't do crap." She tapped the light plating over her chest. "Be glad you get actual armor, and not some Disney princess dress."

I waved my cast at her. "To be fair, I don't heal as easily as you guys."

"Panacea won't help if I get my head blown off." she said bluntly.

I certainly couldn't argue with that. "Yeah. Kind of weird how you're supposedly being protected, but you're the only one of us without a helmet."

"I know, right! But Glenn Chambers said—did you have him too? Yes? Geez, that guy's a weirdo!" Somehow, we got sidetracked into discussing our mutual run-ins with the Image department. The way Vista told the story, her overall design was aimed at setting her up as the local PRT's team mascot. Maybe her perspective was biased, but honestly, this sounded iffy to me. Of course I understood the PR angle; it was an old advertising trick, using cute characters to improve your public image and sell marketable plushies. The problem I had was that, say, Disney didn't have to worry about Snow White getting disemboweled by a wolf made of razor blades.

It made me grateful to be a plain-looking kid with epicanthic folds, and not a photogenic little blonde girl.

Our little chat was interrupted when the call light turned on again. "Clockblocker to Console. All hostages unhurt, three Merchants crying and begging for forgiveness. Waiting for BBPD to pick them up."

"Copy. Good work." Gallant's power sure was useful for these situations.

Over the next few hours I triaged more similar incidents, sending Aegis to respond to a house fire and Triumph to break up a gang shootout. My impostor syndrome gradually ebbed, even though the others were the ones doing all the work. By the end of the shift, I was comfortable enough to work on a physics problem set while waiting for the next transmission.

Maybe I had things handled after all.

September 2, 2010

Around lunchtime on Thursday, I got an email on my Wards phone, short and to the point.

FROM: Armsmaster (Protectorate ENE leader)

Call me when you get into HQ today. Have a mission for you. - AM

I did not have things handled.

The longest chapter so far, and we have "the Wards, but it's an office procedural." They seem to be always in crisis when we see them in canon, so I made some stuff up about how they might operate under 'normal' circumstances. I imagine team meetings and new hire trainings are common to every workplace.

Writing the high school bit was a little nostalgic. Amy gets a wholesome moment from helping someone without her powers for once, and seems she and Dean don't mind being nullified all that much...on the other, I imagine Vicky was screaming internally the entire time.

Sophia was holding back a bit due to being in front of everyone, but Stalker gonna Stalker. And...yeah, Blank has a rather low tolerance for capes misbehaving.

Fanart is unclear on whether Vista has a helmet or no, I've gone with 'no'.

Anyways, next time we find out what Colin's idea is. Some of the reviews have been spot on, meaning I'm not nearly as creative as I thought I was being.