Security! (a Worm SI fic)

When a fanfic writer wakes up inside the fanfic he was about to write, he gets quite the shock ...

[This story was originally posted on the NSFW section of this site because the majority of my work is there. I'm shifting it here because it's actually SFW.]

Disclaimers:
1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.
2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.
3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.


Index
Chapter One: Introduction (below)
Chapter Two - First Interaction
Chapter Three - Second Interaction
Chapter Four - Third Interaction
Chapter Five - Fourth Interaction
Chapter Six - Fifth Interaction
Chapter Seven - Calm Before the Storm
Chapter Eight - Fight!
Chapter Nine - Heroes and Villains
Chapter Ten - (Tell Me Why) I Don't Like Mondays
Chapter Eleven - Interactions Great and Small
Chapter Twelve - Revelations
Chapter Thirteen - Crises
Chapter Fourteen - Consequences
Chapter Fifteen - Confrontations
Chapter Sixteen - Resolutions
Chapter Seventeen - Assorted Interludes
Chapter Eighteen - More Interludes
Chapter Nineteen - Sixth Interaction - Panacea
Chapter Twenty - Taylor
Chapter Twenty-One - Developments
Chapter Twenty-Two - Trolling for Fun and Profit
Chapter Twenty-Three - Assault
Chapter Twenty-Four - Fallout
Chapter Twenty-Five - Points of View
Chapter Twenty-Six - The Gathering Storm
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Bomb Threat
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Countdown
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Deadline
Chapter Thirty - The Big Reveal
Chapter Thirty-One - Yet More Interludes
Chapter Thirty-Two -.Viewpoints - First Person Singular
Chapter Thirty-Three - Saturday Afternoon Interludes
Chapter Thirty-Four - Moving On
Chapter Thirty-Five - Opening Shots
Chapter Thirty-Six - Reactions
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Adding to the Mix
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Reaping the Whirlwind
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Arranging Matters
Chapter Forty - Conflict Resolution
Chapter Forty-One - Winding Down
Chapter Forty-Two - The Meaning of Life
Chapter Forty-Three - Everything Changes
Chapter Forty-Four - Paying the Piper
Chapter Forty-Five - Undersiders!
Chapter Forty-Six - Recruitment Drive
Chapter Forty-Seven - Unwelcome Revelations
Chapter Forty-Eight - Buildup
Chapter Forty-Nine - Trouble in Paradise
Chapter Fifty - Tying Up Loose Ends
Chapter Fifty-One - Zion
Epilogue One - Earth Bet
Epilogue One (continued)
Epilogue One Conclusion + Epilogue Two

 

Security!

An SI Worm fanfic

[Author's Note #1:This story is set within the Worm universe. All significant aspects of that universe are owned by its creator, Wildbow. I'm just using it for a bit.]

[Author's Note #2: I will accept any legitimate criticism of my work. However, I reserve the right to ignore anyone who says "That's wrong" without showing how it is wrong, and suggesting how it can be made right.]

Chapter One: Introduction

I lounged on the couch, my laptop in front of me. I used a tab to flick open the Worm Resources Thread, to double-check a data point, then I went back to planning the new fic. It was going to be a fix fic, of course; I enjoyed writing those most of all.

My first Worm fic had used an OC to handle most of the alterations to canon; since then, with my other fics, I had gone with changes in continuity to alter matters. A thread on SI characters caught my eye, and I thought about it. Someone based on me; fat, forty-plus ... what could someone like me hope to accomplish in the Wormverse?

I thought of one of my more recent fics, where the main character had been slung back in time, losing her powers in the process, but in possession of a great deal of 'future' knowledge. Knowledge, properly applied, is power.

Perhaps one of the staff at Winslow? Taylor could definitely use a friend there. Take some of the heat off of her, make the bullies leave her alone.

I considered making over one of the canon characters; Gladly, maybe, or Quinlan. But both of those showed up in plot too much to be easily replaced.

A substitute teacher, maybe? I could do that.

But then, a conversation with a friend online put me on the right track.

If I wrote my self-insert character as having the same occupation as myself - that is, security guard - he would have a ready-made excuse to be at Winslow. The last detail fell into place.

I opened a new Word file and started typing. First, the title of the fic. And then the opening paragraphs.

=///=​

Principal Blackwell read the email again and frowned.

Ms Blackwell:
Per the recent Taylor Hebert locker incident, a security guard will be stationed at Winslow High during the hours of ...

Absently, she sent an acknowledgement, letting her employers know that she'd read their damn stupid email. She wanted to mail them back, to tell them that she didn't need some flat-footed rent-a-cop roaming the hallways of her school, but she knew it would do no good.

Idly, she recalled a joke. "Teachers would be able to get a lot more done, if it wasn't for all the students.". Running Winslow High was a lot like that; the school would run rather more smoothly if it wasn't for all those square-peg students, stubbornly refusing to fit into the round holes that had been neatly set aside for them.

Students like Taylor Hebert; if she had just had the decency to fit in like everyone else, then the whole locker incident would never have happened. Winslow would never have made the papers, and she would not have had to kowtow to an enraged Danny Hebert. Paying for his daughter's hospital bills had put quite a dent in the school's budget for the year; another factor that militated against getting in a security guard ...

=///=​

I stopped and re-read what I had typed, and then frowned; Blackwell was coming across as just a little too heartless and calculating. If I let the story continue in this vein, she would end up punishing Taylor for the sheer audacity of complaining about being bullied. I decided to revise it, rein it in a little.

Later. It was late; I was getting tired. Leaning back, I let my eyelids drift shut for just a moment.

This happened on occasion. Not quite sleepy enough to drift off, not quite awake enough to stay alert. I would ease back and forth between sleep and wakening states, and occasionally type a few sentences into the story. Sometimes I would even doze for a little bit and dream that I’d typed far more than I really had. Then I would be faced with trying to remember how the story had gone in my dream, and try to recreate it.

Opening my eyes again, I started creating the character that I was going to insert into the story. Michael Allen. Veteran security officer. I paused, pondering. Licensed for concealed carry?

On balance, I didn’t like the idea, but then, this was America and a world where conflict was somewhat more likely than the when/where that I lived in. Yeah, okay. Concealed carry.

A thought struck me, and I did a bit of quick research. The original author had never specified precisely where Brockton Bay was, but there was a Brockton in Massachusetts, and so I used that state as a test case. And I came up against a hard block; Massachusetts CCW laws had a definitive ban against concealed firearms inside school grounds. So, he has a concealed carry permit, but he doesn’t carry inside Winslow. I can work with that.

I typed a few more lines, setting the story up, then let my eyelids drift closed again. Maybe I should shut this down for the evening and go to bed ...

=///=​

I opened my eyes again, to the rasping buzz of my alarm clock.

What the hell? I didn’t set my alarm clock. What the hell time is it, anyway?

I forced my eyes open, stared at the bright green numbers on the face of the alarm clock.

It took me a few moments to register what I was looking at.

One: it was five thirty in the morning. I do not get up at five thirty in the morning. This is a physical impossibility.

Two: My alarm clock has red numbers, not green. This was not my alarm clock.

Three: Not my bedroom. I do not keep sports posters on my bedroom wall. Plus, the furniture was all wrong.

I frowned, trying to make sense of it all. Did I go out? Crash at someone else’s place?

I shook my head. I couldn’t see it. I only go out on Mondays and Tuesdays, and then only to friends’ places. And I’m always capable of driving back afterward.

Sitting up in bed, I stared at the sports poster. And it began to dawn on me that it wasn’t a sports poster. I turned on the bedside light and directed the beam at the poster.

That was people in costume, not in sports gear. And as I began to register details, verbal descriptions began to click into place.

Tall woman, black hair, black and grey costume, ruined tower on front of costume, long cape.

Armoured man, blue and silver, visor covering eyes, carrying a polearm.

Young woman, blue bodysuit with silver circuitry pattern.

I began to shake; I stood up, the alarm clock still blaring, forgotten. Leaning closer, I stared at the poster. Was this some fan thing? People dressed up in costumes from the story? Or a CGI thing? Had someone made a movie about this and no-one told me?

If it was CGI, then it was the best I’d ever seen. Absolutely photo-realistic. And if it was people in costumes, they wore them well. Like they were born to it.

I pointed at the characters and spoke out loud, as if I could dispel the haze over my thoughts that way.

“Armsmaster, Alexandria, Legend, Battery ... that must be Assault ... Eidolon? Huh. That’s probably Velocity then ...” At the end of the row, a dark-skinned woman bearing a heavily modified assault rifle, stars-and-stripes scarf across her face. “Definitely Miss Militia.”

I sat down on the bed again, the wind going out of me.

“What the fuck,” I said out loud, “is going on?”

=///=​

One hot shower later, it was still refusing to make sense to me. Pulling on a bathrobe and slippers – it was cold! – I wandered out into a living room, still half-expecting to see the back end of a movie set, or people leaping out to spring the most elaborate April Fools prank I had ever seen.

Nothing of the sort happened. It was an ordinary living room. Except that, looking at it carefully, it was a living room that I would live in. Things were where I would put them. I could believe that I lived here.

Except that I had never seen this place before in my life.

=///=​

Moments later, as I ate cereal at the small table, I reassessed that view. I had never seen this place before ... but I knew where everything was. Because it was where I would put it.

The cereal was a brand I had never seen before, but it was close enough to what I usually ate to not give me problems. I dumped the bowl in the sink, rinsed it, and looked around.

On the fridge was a schedule sheet. A roster. A name.

Michael Allen.

And under it, the location for work.

Winslow High School.

I sat down again.

“No. No fucking way.”

I’d dreamed typing up stories before. But I’d never dreamed my way into the story.

First time for everything, I guess.

Then I looked at the start time. Today. Seven thirty.

“Okay,” I said out loud. “Time to shape up or ship out. Do I treat this as a dream, and see how weird it can get, or do I act like I’m in the story, and do my best to help Taylor out?”

Put that way, I didn’t really have a choice. There were people in Worm that I really thought got a bad deal out of things. Taylor was first in line, of course, but there were others. And if I could help them, even in a dream, that would make for an awesome story to write once I woke up.

Shape up it is, then.

=///=​

Ten minutes later, I was uniforming up. There was far more paraphernalia than I was used to; pepper spray, stun gun, cuffs ... Christ, was I going into a war zone, or a high school?

Then I remembered Winslow from the story. Oh, right. Yeah.

The scariest bit was putting on the stab vest. People get shanked at Winslow.

Fucking awesome.

I made damn sure that stab vest was properly secured.

=///=​

The other thing on the fridge was a letter. It informed me that I was starting at Winslow on April the eighth, of the year two thousand and eleven.

Which, my watch assured me, was today.

April eight. April eight. That date nagged at me. It was significant, somehow.

I’d figure it out later. I left the apartment.

=///=​

As I rode the early-morning bus through Brockton Bay, I had to admire the sheer attention to detail that my subconscious was capable of. I recognised landmarks I'd read about within the story, but only by context; the buildings looked nothing like I'd envisaged them, nor even like the cover photo on the story.

It had taken me a bit to figure out the bus lines, but I worked it out eventually. I found Winslow on the map, and located the right bus line. It looked like I was on time for a seven thirty start.

I hated being late for work, even in a dream.

As I settled back into my seat, I pondered the meaning of the date. April eight. It meant something, I was sure ... but what? There was something that I was missing.

I was interrupted in my reverie by a collective gasp from the others in the bus. Looking up, I saw a slender white-clad feminine form whip by; I had just enough time to register blonde hair and a fluttering skirt before she was gone.

This dream involved superheroes. Somehow I had temporarily forgotten that.

"Was that Glory Girl?" I asked the guy next to me.

"Sure was," he confirmed, then looked at me oddly. "You're acting like you've never seen her before."

"New in town," I said hastily. "Seeing her on the news is different to seeing her for real."

"I guess," he agreed, then he offered his hand. "Gerry's the name. What brings you to the 'Bay?"

I shook it. He had calloused hands and a strong grip. "Michael. Work.". Using two fingers, I tapped the patch on the sleeve of my uniform. "Babysitting kids at a high school.". With a roll of my eyes, I added, "Joy."

He chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder. "Good luck. Tase the little bastards if they give you any trouble."

I grinned at him. "Two spare batteries. I came prepared."

He laughed out loud.

"So what do you do?" I asked, the ice now broken. It was in my best interests to find out as much as possible about Brockton Bay, or rather, the version of it that my dream was creating. Somewhere along the line, I realised, I had made the decision to treat everything as if it were real.

"Dock worker," he replied, and with his build I could believe it. "When there's work, of course."

"A bit slack at the moment, huh?" I asked, sympathy in my tone.

"Only for the last bloody ten years," he said morosely, and I heard the faintest trace of an Irish accent. "I mean, Hebert does his best, but when there's no work, there's no bloody work."

I nodded. "And that's God's honest truth," I agreed. That would be Danny Hebert. Taylor’s dad.

God, it’s weird to hear his name in casual conversation. Like he’s a real person.

"Man might as well get bloody work with a supervillain," Gerry groused. "At least they're hiring."

I raised an eyebrow. "Supervillains, huh?" I asked. "That pay well?"

He shrugged. "So I hear."

"Yeah," I replied. "But what's the dental plan like?". I mimed punching myself in the jaw.

He nodded ruefully. "Yeah, you got a point there," he agreed. "I might keep looking for legitimate work for a bit longer."

I looked up as the bus pulled to a stop. "Whoops, this is my stop," I said. "Good luck with finding work, Gerry. And hold out for that dental plan."

He got up to let me out into the aisle. "I'll do that, Mike. And watch your back with those rugrats."

I got off the bus and watched it drive away, then turned to walk into Winslow High School.

=///=​

As I walked into the parking lot out front of the school, a woman about my age, skinny and with dirty blonde hair, came to meet me. Mentally I flicked through my file of descriptions of Winslow staff. It wasn’t an exhaustive list; two women and two men had actually been described in the story. This woman fitted the basic description of the school principal.

“Ms Blackwell?” I asked as she approached me.

She nodded curtly. “You’re Allen. The security guard.”

“That’s me,” I agreed. I extended my hand, and after a moment, she shook it.

She looked me over critically. “I always thought you security guards came with equipment belts.”

I nodded. “I arrived on the bus. I thought it would be better to carry my gear in my bag.” I indicated the backpack I had over my shoulder. “Causes less problems that way.”

“But you will be carrying it around the school,” she observed.

“Yes, ma’am, I will,” I agreed.

“Do you have a gun?” she asked. “Because we don’t allow those in the school.”

I shook my head. “I’m licensed to carry, of course, but I do know about that. So I didn’t bring it.”

“What do you have to defend yourself with then?” she asked sharply. She was definitely being antagonistic; I began to wonder if it had been such a good idea to write her like that. And then I wondered if she was like that because I had written her that way, or because that was the way I read her personality from the story.

“Pepper spray, a stun gun and a baton,” I answered, pulling my belt out of the bag and buckling it on. “Also, cuffs, in case someone needs to be restrained for the police.”

“You’ve been trained in the responsible use of all these?” she asked sharply.

“I have all the required licences,” I responded. I hoped I did; it felt like the right answer.

“I hope so, for your sake,” she said darkly. “If the school gets sued by anyone because of the way you treated their children, we will be passing the costs on to you.”

And if that’s not a way of saying “keep out of the way and don’t cause waves”, I don’t know what is, I thought.

“I prefer to talk before taking physical action, ma’am,” I said blandly. “I also carry a voice recorder. So if there’s any dispute about what was said when, it can be settled on the spot.”

She gave me a hard stare, but did not seem to be able to think of any more objections. “Hmm,” she said. “Well, I’ll get you set up. Most of the faculty should be in by now.”

=///=​

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Principal Blackwell. “I would like you to meet our new security guard, Mr Allen.” She introduced the faculty, and I did my best to remember the names. I shook hands where offered, nodded and smiled where not.

Quinlan I picked out by eye, Gladly and Mrs Knott I did not. Once again, their faces were at odds with what I had envisaged. Gladly grinned broadly as he shook my hand, trying for the ‘good old boy’ vibe. Quinlan had a handshake like a wet fish, with a faint tremor. Mrs Knott shook my hand like a man, with a nice firm grip, but not overdoing it like Gladly.

I cleared my throat; everyone quieted.

“I’m pleased to meet you all,” I said. “I won’t remember all your names at first, but give me a few days and I’ll know you.” I looked around at the group. “This is my first time working at a school like this, and I’m probably your first experience of a school security officer, so I’m willing to work at it until we reach an understanding. I don’t want to go stepping on any toes.” I paused. “Thank you.”

There was a general murmur that I took for agreement; I turned to Principal Blackwell.

“Is there anything else we need to do before I start?” I asked her.

She frowned. “Not that I can think of. If there’s nothing else …” Turning on her heel, she walked out of the room, heading for her office.

I followed along, waiting until she paused at her office door. “Do I get master keys?” I knew I did; it was specified in the letter on my fridge.

She frowned more deeply. “I’m not sure about that …”

“Do you have master keys?” I pressed as she unlocked the door.

“Yes, but they’re generally spares for the janitor …”

“And now I need them,” I pointed out. “If I need to go find the janitor every time I have to investigate some strange occurrence, this will drastically reduce my ability to do my job.”

“Fine,” she snapped. Entering the office, she reached into a drawer and almost threw me a bunch of keys. Most were unlabelled; I guessed that this was because the janitor knew them all.

“Sign out book?” I prompted.

Grudgingly, she pulled a book from the drawer, and I signed the keys into my custody. Then I hooked them on to my belt.

“Thank you, Principal Blackwell,” I said politely. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

I didn’t quite catch her reply, but I don’t think it was very polite. I exited her office, carefully closing the door behind me.

=///=​

My first order of business was to get the layout of the school. It was all one building, with multiple levels, so I was understandably concerned about being able to find my way around. Worse, they hadn’t supplied me with a map of the school, so I was forced to use dead reckoning.

Turning a corridor, making a bet with myself that the cafeteria lay ahead, I encountered Mr Gladly. He smiled broadly when he saw me.

“Allen, right?” he asked. “Got a first name?”

“It’s Michael,” I told him. “But if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to use Allen. That way, we don’t send the kids the wrong message.”

“Hey,” he said. “I just tell ‘em to call me Mr G. They eat it up. A teacher they can relate to, you know? They love me.”

I know one that doesn’t, I thought but didn’t say. And I had to say that his attitude was starting to grate on me a little as well.

“Not in this job to be liked,” I said, but with a half-smile to take the sting out of it. “I just want to do it right, make sure everyone gets home at the end of the day.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, chill, man,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “You always this intense?”

I looked at him curiously, head tilted to one side. “I don’t see it as intensity,” I told him. “I see it as choosing to do the job right the first time, every time. I’ve been doing this for ten years. I’ve seen it done badly. Sometimes I’ve screwed up. But I’ve seen it done well, too. I prefer to get it right.” I paused. “Actually, you can help me out here.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his enthusiasm back. “Trouble finding your way around?”

“A little,” I admitted, “but I’m getting there. What I’m after is the names of any trouble students. People I’d be advised to keep an eye on. People getting bullied, might need an eye kept on them, make sure people aren’t making trouble for them. Places where trouble usually starts. Things like that. You’ve been here longer than I have; you’d have a better idea than me, right?”

I didn’t miss the wary look in his eye.

“Huh,” he said. “You know, I’d have to go to the principal before I gave you the names of any ‘troublemakers’,” he gave the word air quotes, “but I guess I can point you out a few people, once classes start.”

I nodded. “Anything that would be useful, I’d appreciate.” I paused, giving him room to say something, but he didn’t bite.

“Well,” he said, “I’d better get my classroom ready for the first class. The kids will be showing up any time now.”

“Just one more thing,” I said, following him down the hall. “I read about an incident this January. Someone got locked in a locker?”

He quickened his pace. “We dealt with that matter,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s over and done.”

“Ah, so the guilty parties were caught and punished?” I asked, moving faster myself.

“You’ll have to talk to the principal about that,” he said, almost breaking into a run.

I slowed to a walk, watching him hurry away.

Interesting, I thought. He knows they failed her. Knows they’re still failing her. But he doesn’t want to face up to it.

It was something to think about.

=///=​

The students arrived in dribs and drabs as their parents dropped them off, and in large groups as the buses arrived and departed. I managed to find my way back to the front of the building, and watched them arrive. There were quite a few startled glances my way, and I nodded to those who made eye contact with me, but no-one spoke to me, and I didn’t talk either.

It wasn’t hard to pick out Emma Barnes and her coterie; red haired, striking good looks, and a figure that did not belong on a fifteen year old. Madison was several inches shorter, rather petite, and cute in a way that had appealed to me in my younger years. Sophia was slender and slightly above average height, with black hair and dark skin.

She was also the first ‘cape’ I had encountered since this whole episode started; I wasn’t counting the sighting of Glory Girl. It was intriguing; looking at her, I saw an athletic fifteen year old. But she was also a superhero, of sorts.

I took care not to stare at her, moving past the trio, nodding to Emma when her eyes met mine, I kept my eyes front. Which was a good thing, because a tall skinny girl stumbled into my path; if I hadn’t been looking, I would have knocked her over.

“Whoops,” I said, propping on the spot. “Sorry.”

“My fault,” she muttered, and ducked past me. She was carrying a heavy-looking bag, and she didn’t go to a locker, unlike everyone else there. I had a momentary impression of round-lensed glasses, long dark curly hair …

Holy shit, I thought. That was her. Taylor Hebert. I just met Taylor Hebert.

I wanted to go after her, tell her that she had a friend in this school. Tell her that there was someone on her side now.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I had a job to do here, at Winslow. Duties to perform. And taking care of Taylor Hebert, helping her, was only a small part of that job. A very important part, yes. But still only a small part.

Taking a deep breath, I went about my rounds.

But my thoughts did not stray far from Taylor Hebert.

I was sure that we would meet again.


End of Chapter One

 

Security!

Chapter Two: First Interaction


I left the cacophony of banging locker doors behind me, and proceeded down the hallway. Taylor's home room doubled as one of the classrooms for computer studies; I had already located it, but I didn't go that way. The very last thing I wanted was to make Taylor think I was stalking her in any way.

It wasn’t just that she was only fifteen, and had severe trust and control issues; I also had no desire to get on the bad side of the girl with bug control powers. The rest of the world would learn, sooner or later, that bug control was a power to be reckoned with; I was already fully aware of this fact.

So instead I started patrolling the school corridors, checking fire doors to make sure no-one had wedged them open or shut, looking into fire extinguisher closets to ensure that they still contained the extinguishers, and in general improving my grasp of the layout of the place. The bell went for home room, and I heard the thunder of teenage feet as they went their separate ways. I continued my rounds.

It wasn't until well after the first period bell had rung that I realised the significance of the date. It wasn't some obscure American holiday. It was the date that the story started.

I'm here at the beginning. This is the day she makes the decision to go out in costume, rather than wait until the break. Though she doesn't actually go out till Sunday.

The realisation sent a rush of heady excitement through me. I also recalled what was due to happen here at school, and when and where. Girls' bathrooms, third floor, lunch period. Lunch period starts at eleven forty-five. I checked my watch. Nine thirty. First period's half done.

I found the stairwell and went up it. Second floor. My work boots echoed in the empty corridors as I continued my rounds. Steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. I didn't want to tire myself out, but I did want to cover ground.

=//=//=​

The bell for second period went when I figured I'd just about covered the second floor; I stepped into a corner and waited for the surging tide of kids to abate. Some of these obviously hadn't seen me when they came in, and I received my share of curious glances.

One youth with Asian features approached me; I hadn't missed the nudges and whispers between himself and his friends before he came over.

"Can I help you?" I asked politely.

"You security?" he asked me bluntly.

I raised an eyebrow, pretended to check the patch on my sleeve, then nodded. "That's what the uniform says."

"Yeah well, the ones you gotta look out for is the ones with the shaved heads, you got it?" he said. "Empire Eighty-Eight. They're the troublemakers around here."

I nodded politely. "I'll keep that in mind," I replied noncommittally.

"You do that," he said, moving back to the group of his friends. They headed off down the hallway, laughing and joking and glancing back at me occasionally. I didn't watch them go directly, but I did keep them them in my peripheral vision. Watching a crowd go past, it's better to defocus the eyes and let patterns spring out, rather than trying to look at every single person individually.

I hadn't missed the fact that the boy who approached me, and his friends, had been wearing red and green. Gang colours. The colours of the Azn Bad Boys. Or Boyz, even. It had been a fairly blatant ploy to set me looking for Empire Eighty-Eight recruits instead of the ABB.

Standing there, observing the crowd going past, I did not miss that the ABB contingent passed by some of those very same skinheads. There was a little posturing, a little flexing, and I turned my head that way, my expression one of polite interest. I wasn't sure if they noticed me watching, but the ABB youths moved on, and the skinheads headed off in their own direction.

I made mental notes, and continued on my rounds.

=//=//=​

It took me most of second period to finish looking around the second floor, and make it to the third floor. The floor plan tended to repeat itself, so I was getting a good idea of which way the hallways were going to run. Of course, without a map of the school itself, I was having to find out what was where the hard way; go there and look.

Note to self: get a fire plan of the school, and fill it in myself if I have to.

But I did find the third floor girls’ bathrooms.

No-one seemed to be around. I pushed the door slightly; it gave, swinging in, with a little resistance. Spring-loaded. Once I pushed it open a little farther, I was in a short corridor with another door at the other end. I nodded; public washrooms the world over had the same setup.

“Security!” I called. I heard my voice echo hollowly.

There was no answering shout from within, so I pushed open the inner door, letting the outer one swing shut.

A typical toilet and sink arrangement; six stalls down the left, a row of sinks down the right. A scratched and stained mirror over the sinks. None of the stalls were locked; I took hold of the closest door and tried to push it inward. Nothing happened. I pulled it outward. It opened easily.

I frowned. This was how it had read in the story, but why would they have the stalls set up this way?

The only reason I could think of was incompetent workmen, and official apathy. My frown deepened. If this had been done right ...

Thinking hard, I let myself out of the restroom, and went on my way. I still had most of the third period to go.

In Winslow, I had learned, the class periods ran for fifty minutes, with a five-minute block of time between in order to allow them to get from one class to another. Home room had started at eight forty-five, and the bell had rung for first period at nine sharp. Class started at nine oh five, second period at ten, and so on.

I knew that lunch hour started at eleven forty-five, and that Taylor would go immediately to that bathroom to sit and eat her lunch in peace. Emma and her friends would come in shortly after, and carry out their cruel prank. But I didn’t know exactly when. It was a problem.

I mulled it over as I made my way back down to the first floor, to the staff break room. It was barely twenty past eleven when I got there, and went to the fridge for my lunch bag. I’d made some sandwiches and put in a juice popper as well. I don't usually drink juice poppers, but apparently the me in this dream did.

Mrs Knott, from Taylor’s home room, strolled in when I was halfway through my sandwich.

“Mr Allen,” she greeted me cordially. “How are you finding Winslow?”

I finished chewing, swallowed, and smiled at her.

“It’s interesting,” I allowed. “I see the gang activity is pretty intense. Do you get actual fights in the school?”

She nodded. “I’ve heard of it happening,” she said. “Never seen it, though. It’s usually between the skinheads and the ABB.”

I raised an eyebrow as I popped the straw into my juice. “The Merchants don’t get into it?”

She snorted, an unladylike sound. I decided that I liked her. “The stoners? No, all they want to do is sit around and get high.”

I nodded. “Drugs aside, I suppose that’s a blessing.” I paused. “Any other troublemakers in the school? People being bullied? Anything I should watch out for?”

She looked suddenly troubled. I thought I knew why, too.

I’m an outsider. She sees stuff, and also sees that no-one seems to care about doing something about it. She doesn’t know if she can trust me or not. Scared of what might happen if she talks to me.

Checking my watch, I finished the popper and tossed it into the bin. My sandwich wrapper followed, then I stood and brushed myself off. “I’ll level with you. I overheard a couple of girls talking about a prank that was going to go off in the third floor girls’ bathroom. If I’m going to nip this in the bud, I’m going to need a witness.” I looked her in the eye. “Can you help me?”

She only hesitated for a moment. “I’m in.”

I smiled. “Excellent.”

=//=//=​

I checked my watch. It was eleven forty. Five minutes till go time. And I still didn't know exactly how I was going to handle it.

I cleared my throat and began to talk, just at the same time as Mrs Knott did.

We were sitting in a classroom down the hall from the stairwell; I had opened the classroom with my passkey, and we had each grabbed a chair to sit on. Mine was too narrow for my butt; Mrs Knott fitted into hers perfectly.

"Sorry," we said at the same moment.

I grinned and waved my hand in a go-on motion. "You go first."

She smiled and inclined her head slightly. "I was just about to ask you, how long have you been a security guard?"

"About ten years, more or less," I told her. "Ten years as a taxi driver before that."

"Those are very ... different ... jobs," she commented.

"Not as different as you'd think," I replied dryly. "You get to see the worst of the human condition, either way."

She nodded thoughtfully at that. "A very good point. What were you going to say?"

"Oh, it just seemed to me that a lot of the classrooms on this floor don't seem to be in regular use," I said. "Is that the case?"

She nodded. "More or less. They were going to put in more computer labs, but the funding fell through. So now they're basically spares until we can find something to do with them."

"Damn," I said. "That sucks. You teach computers, right?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "If the labs had gone through, we could be teaching a lot more advanced computer classes."

"And you'd be in charge of it all," I guessed.

"More or less," she agreed.

"Damn," I said again. "That really sucks."

She shot me a slightly startled look, as if not expecting the sympathy. "Thanks, I guess," she said, with a faint smile.

I paused, trying to think about what else to say, and the bell went off to signal the end of third period. Both of us jumped, as if a gunshot had gone off.

"Right," I said, standing up and stretching my back, "let's do this thing."

=//=//=​

"Are you sure that this is the right place?" asked Mrs Knott, as we strolled along the corridor toward the stairwell. Students were emerging from classrooms and heading downstairs toward the cafeteria; others were coming up the stairwell and heading toward the girls' bathrooms.

I recognised the back view of Taylor Hebert as she emerged from the stairwell and went toward the bathrooms; brown hoodie, long dark curly hair, "Yeah," I said. "I'm sure."

But here was my problem. If I stationed myself outside the bathrooms, the bullies would not bully, and no incident would happen. Mrs Knott would decide that I had wasted her time, and would be less receptive to my attempts to help Taylor out.

“We just need to hang back,” I said. “Let them get into place. Catch them in the act.”

“It sounds a little like entrapment to me,” said Mrs Knott quietly.

“We’re not inviting them to do it,” I pointed out. “We’re just making sure we have the goods on them. Otherwise they get away scot free, and do it again when we’re not looking.”

She looked unconvinced, but nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Five more minutes.”

=//=//=​

The time ticked by, interminably slowly. On my watch, the second hand was making its last slow revolution of the dial when three girls emerged from the stairwell.

“That’s them,” I said.

She peered around the corner, then stared at me. “But that’s –“

“That’s who we’re waiting on,” I told her. “Trust me on this.”

She heaved a sigh. “Well, I might as well. We’ve wasted enough time on this foolishness already. What do we do now?”

“As soon as they go inside,” I said, “we move.”

Emma entered first, then Sophia, then Madison. The door banged behind them.

I started out at a steady walk, Mrs Knott beside me.

“I can’t belive they’re –“ she began.

“You’ll see,” I said. “Just wait.”

As we reached the door, I heard the explosion of laughter from inside. Reflexively, I reached into a pocket and flicked a switch.

Fuck, I thought. I'm too late to stop it. But not too late to catch them in the act.

"Stay back until I call you in," I said to Mrs Knott.

Not waiting to see if she did as she was told, I pushed open the outer door. She held it open as I went to the inner door. As I opened that door, I yelled, "Security!"

=//=//=​

The laughter, which had been filling the room a moment ago, died to nothing in an instant. Emma Barnes, closest to me, and indeed arrested in the act of reaching for the door handle, froze in mid-step. Behind her, Sophia Hess froze also, but only momentarily. Her eyes began darting around the room, looking for a way out. Madison Clements, farthest back, simply stood there, eyes wide with shock.

"Well, now," I said. "What's going on in here?"

“What the fuck?” said Emma, recovering somewhat. “This is the girls’ bathroom. You can’t come in here!”

“Actually, yes I can,” I said. “Security guard. I can go anywhere. Now. Once more from the top. What’s going on in here? I smell spilled fruit juice.”

The smell was pretty strong in the air, along with whatever soft drink they’d doused her with. A sickly sweet smell.

“We just had a little spill,” said Sophia, stepping past Emma. “We’re leaving now. Get out of my way.”

“No,” I said firmly, “no-one goes anywhere until I’ve found out what’s going on.”

At that moment, Taylor emerged from the toilet stall, wearing her backpack. She turned to stare at me. She looked … messy. Covered in juice stains, droplets on her glasses, stains on her pack.

“You can’t do that!” Emma protested, her voice rising slightly. “This is illegal detention.”

“You’re thinking of deprivation of liberty,” I pointed out. “And no, it’s actually not.” I indicated Taylor with a nod. “You there. What happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to her!” snapped Sophia, taking a step forward. “Now let us out of here, you creepy old perv!”

“Not until she tells me what happened,” I said. “Now, step back.”

“Or what?” she said. “You’ll make me step back? Touch me and I scream rape. You’ll never work in a fucking school again. Fuck, you’ll never work as a security guard again. You ugly fat fuck.”

“You’d do that?” I asked mildly. “You’d lie to ruin my reputation, just to get out of this?”

She laughed in my face. “You don’t know who you’re fucking dealing with, you piece of shit.”

As she spoke, she came closer, intending to shove me out of the way. She simply didn’t expect me to grab her wrist and apply an arm bar.

I knew she was strong and fit, for a fifteen year old. She had serious muscle. But when it came down to it, I was nearly three times her age and twice her weight. Put simply, I was bigger, stronger, and had more reach. And she didn’t dare use her power to get loose.

“Christ fuck!” she screamed. “That fucking hurts!” It hurt because she was trying to twist out of the hold, and applying more pressure to the nerve points.

“Then step back, and stop trying to get past me,” I said, reasonably, and let go, shoving her away from me. I looked past her. “You there. Come here, kid. What happened?”

The trio were too shocked, too stunned, at my manhandling of Sophia to prevent Taylor from approaching me.

“They trapped me in my stall and poured juice and soda over me,” she said in a low tone of voice.

“Surely looks like they did,” I replied. “You four are coming with me to the principal’s office.” I looked at Taylor. “Your name?”

“Taylor Hebert,” she mumbled. “Am I in trouble?”

I shook my head. “No, Taylor, you are not in trouble. Did you do anything to provoke them?”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t. Are we really going to the principal’s office?”

“Damn straight we are,” I told her.

“Fuck off I’m going to the principal’s office,” snapped Sophia. “You fucking laid hands on me. You’re gonna fucking regret that. I’ll tell everyone you grabbed my boob.” There was a tearing sound as she ripped her top slightly. “I’ll tell them you did that. You’re fucking gone.”

“I’ll tell them he didn’t,” said Taylor, her voice stronger. “I’ll tell them everything you’ve ever done to me.”

“And you think they’ll believe you, Hebert?” snapped Emma. “It’s three against one, against the pervert security guard on his first day, and the weirdo loner. Who’s going to believe you against us?”

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and moved aside for Mrs Knott.

“I might,” she said coolly.

=//=//=​

“You’re making a big mistake,” Emma said for the fifth time. “My dad’s a lawyer, and he’ll –“

“Yes, Miss Barnes, we all heard you the first few times,” I said. “Your father’s a lawyer. But he’ll do nothing. So kindly be quiet until we get to Principal Blackwell’s office. You can talk all you want there.”

We all trooped down the last flight of steps to the first floor, and Mrs Knott led the way toward the office. Emma followed her, with Sophia behind her, casting occasional poisonous glances back at me, and Madison behind her. Taylor walked alongside me.

“Want to call your parents?” I asked her quietly. “You can borrow my phone. Get clean clothes in.”

She blinked at me; I had offered her alcohol wipes to clean her glasses off, for which she had been almost pathetically grateful. “If I could, thanks,” she said quietly.

I nodded, and handed my phone over. She dialled and waited for an answer.

“Dad?” she said. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m at school. Can you come and ... no, I’m not in trouble. Could you come and bring some clean clothes? Yeah, something happened, and ... I’ll tell you when you get here. Thanks, Dad. Love you.”

She handed the phone back with a half-smile. “Thanks, mister ...?”

“Allen,” I supplied. “But you can call me Mike. I’ve been bullied myself. It’s never fun, and I do not tolerate that crap in others.”

She stared at me. I stand a shade over six feet in my work boots, and I weigh closer to three hundred pounds than two hundred. Much of that is admittedly fat, but I’m also broad in the shoulders and large in the arms. “How ...?” she began.

I grinned back at her. “Bullying takes different forms, Miss Hebert. There was a time I was being bullied in the workplace by other guards, who were spreading rumours about me. It’s never fun, no matter what form it takes.”

She nodded fervently. “Everything’s happened to me. Rumours, being shoved around, having my clothes wet or dirtied ...”

I nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, been there.” I paused. “Do you have any, you know, documentation of what they’ve been doing?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Oh. Oh shit, I forgot. Can you – can I –“

I was already handing her my phone again. She dialled again, feverishly.

“Oh, Dad, yeah it’s me again. Listen, in my closet, top shelf, there’s a stack of papers. A bulldog clip holding them together. Can you get them for me please? It’s really important.” She paused. “Thanks. I’ll see you soon.” She ended the call and handed the phone back. “Thanks,” she said to me. “Really. I would have been kicking myself when I remembered it.”

I shrugged. “Eh,” I said. “I’ve been where you are. And one of these days you’ll be where I am. Kicking ass and taking names.” I held out my fist to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she bumped it with hers, then grinned at me.

=//=//=​

Predictably, Emma got to speak first. She wove a fine tale, with Sophia adding bits here and there, and Madison as the Greek chorus with “uh huh,” and “yeah, that’s what happened” when the narrative lagged. Taylor sat and steamed slowly, when she wasn’t exclaiming with dismay over the state of the contents of her backpack.

“I can’t believe Principal Blackwell’s listening to that crap!” she hissed to me.

Mrs Knott spoke up. “I don’t believe that’s what actually happened,” she said. “I was just outside, and I heard most of what went on –“

“But you didn’t see it!” snapped Sophia. “You didn’t see him grab my breast, and tear my top!”

“I don’t believe he did at all,” Mrs Knott responded curtly.

“How can you say that?” Emma demanded. “You weren’t there! For all we know, you just came along just then, and you’re backing him up, just because he’s an adult and a security guard,” with a pitch and spin on those words that made them sound slightly less savoury than ‘dung beetle’.

I had to admit, she put on a good performance. She looked ready to cry. Principal Blackwell was looking more and more sympathetic to her all the time.

“How about me?” put in Taylor. “Do I get a chance to speak?”

“Uh, of course, Miss Hebert,” said the Principal. “What did you have to say?”

“That what they’re saying is lies,” Taylor said hotly. “Mr Allen came in, and asked them what was going on, and Sophia tried to push past him, and he pushed her away. He didn’t feel her up. She told him to his face that she was going to say all this, to get him in trouble.”

“She was in the toilet stall most of the time,” said Emma dismissively. “She didn’t see it either.”

“Can we deal with the crap later?” I asked. “The situation here is that Taylor is being bullied, and the culprits are these three girls. I had overheard something, I asked Mrs Knott to come in on it.”

Everyone turned to look at Mrs Knott. “He did,” she confirmed. “And I am glad that he did so.”

“As I came in,” I continued, “the girls were laughing. Taylor came out of her stall covered in juice and soda as you see her now ... and they tried to get out of it. Taylor says they trapped her in the stall and poured their cold drinks over her from either side. I believe her. Mrs Knott?”

The teacher raised her head. “I believe her also,” she stated firmly.

“Is it really such a big deal? It seems like a harmless prank –“ began Blackwell.

Taylor half-rose in her seat; I gestured, and she sat down again.

“A case could be made for criminal assault,” I stated firmly. “They poured unknown substances over her, and some of it got in her eyes. It could have been poison. It could have been bodily fluids. Heck, juice and soda isn’t actually good for the eyes anyway. She could suffer permanent damage from this. So yes, this actually is a big deal.”

Principal Blackwell sighed and rose from her seat. “Mr Allen, could you please come with me for a moment?” she said. “We need to confer.”

I nodded. “Certainly.” I hid a smile; I knew exactly what she wanted to confer about.

=//=//=​

In Principal Blackwell’s rear office, with the door closed, she turned to me. “I didn’t want to take this step, but there’s something you should know.”

“Indeed?” I asked. “And what is that something? The reason you’re leaning over backward to give those girls every out you can?”

She glowered at me. “It’s not by choice,” she snapped. She opened a drawer and pulled out a form. I blinked. I didn’t expect that.

“Uh ... what’s this?” I asked.

“A non-disclosure form,” she informed me.

“Non-disclosure about what?” I asked.

“About the fact that Sophia Hess is a Ward,” she told me tartly. “Now sign the damn form.”

I raised an eyebrow, and signed. If anything, my signature as Michael Allen was messier than my real signature.

“And this changes what, exactly?” I asked, once she had the paper in hand.

“Everything!” she snapped. “We get funding from the PRT just because Sophia is here. Her case officer drops by occasionally, to make sure she isn’t getting into trouble. She can leave class whenever she needs to, so that she can carry out her duties as a Ward. We have a huge responsibility here.”

“Uh huh,” I said. “And you’re falling down badly on it.”

She stared at me, as if I had just slapped her in the face.

“You honestly don’t think that the PRT condones their Wards bullying other students, do you?” I asked. “Or the locker incident? If she was involved in that, and current form seems to indicate a strong possibility –“

“We don’t know that for certain,” she said hurriedly. “There is no proof linking Sophia Hess with ... that incident.”

I snorted. “No witnesses willing to testify, you mean.”

There was a tap on the door, just as she was mustering her rebuttal.

“What?” she called out.

“They’re here,” called Mrs Knott through the door.

“Who?” Principal Blackwell called back.

“Everyone.”

=//=//=​

Danny Hebert hugged his daughter, sticky clothes and all. Alan Barnes was talking seriously with Emma, with occasional glances my way. Madison’s parents were there; they were both quite young. Sophia glowered as she spoke to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman who had shown up to represent her.

Alan Barnes approached me. “My daughter says that you sexually assaulted her friend, Sophia Hess,” he stated. His voice was firm and resonant; he would have a good courtroom presence. “If this is true, it means that we can discount anything you’ve got to say.”

I nodded. “And if I can prove she’s lying ...?”

He paused. “Are you calling my daughter a liar?”

I nodded. “And a bully. I have proof on both accounts. As well as Taylor’s word on the matter.”

“Well, we’ll see how much that’s worth,” he said, and turned to go back to his daughter.

“Wait a minute, Alan,” said Danny. “What do you mean by that? I thought we were friends here. I thought our daughters were friends.”

“Sorry, Danny,” said Alan, not sounding the slightest bit sorry. “When it comes down to it, family comes first. I’ll do anything I need to, to protect Emma.”

He walked back to Emma, leaving Danny Hebert staring at his back.

=//=//=​

We convened in the guidance counsellor’s office. The scene was interesting; it was almost a match for what would have happened after the Weymouth incident, sixteen days hence. Taylor was freshly showered, and wearing the clothes that her father had brought from home. The three of us sat up at one end of the egg-shaped table, with Mrs Knott. Principal Blackwell sat down at the far end, with the others. Mr Gladly and Mr Quinlan had not been called in on this one.

As Blackwell murmured to Sophia’s PRT handler, Taylor’s father turned to me.

“I haven’t thanked you yet,” he said quietly. “Danny Hebert.”

I shook his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” I said, and I meant it. I knew more about him than he knew, and I liked it all.

“If we can begin,” said Principal Blackwell. “I would like to –“

“What I want to know,” butted in Sophia, “is why that perv hasn’t been arrested yet for grabbing my breast!”

“We’ll get to that,” said Blackwell. “We need to address these bullying charges –“

“No, she’s right,” said Alan Barnes. “If he did molest Sophia, then he’s a dangerous influence, and we need to ascertain the truth of that right now.”

Blackwell nodded, not entirely reluctantly. “Mr Barnes raises a valid point.”

“Horseshit!” snapped Danny Hebert. “Those two are just trying to divert attention from what happened to Taylor, and you know it.”

“Language, Mr Hebert,” said Blackwell severely. “We will address that concern now.” She turned to Emma. “Did you see this incident?”

Emma nodded, staring me straight in the eye. “Yes, I did.”

“Madison,” she said next. “Did you see it?”

Madison nodded jerkily. “Yeah, I saw it,” she confirmed.

“Taylor, did you see this happen?” asked Principal Blackwell.

Taylor shook her head violently. “He didn’t do anything of the sort,” she denied vehemently.

“She’s lying,” said Emma flatly.

“Well,” said Blackwell, “it seems to be two to one ...”

“But he didn’t!” she repeated.

I cleared my throat. “Uh, if I may?” I asked.

Principal Blackwell looked at me as if I had just oozed out from under a rock. “Yes, Mr Allen?”

I pulled out my voice recorder and studied the display. I ran it back a little bit, then hit PLAY.

“Nothing happened to her!” It was obviously Sophia’s voice. “Now let us out of here, you creepy old perv!”

“Not until she tells me what happened,” My voice. “Now, step back.”

“Or what?” Sophia again. “You’ll make me step back? Touch me and I scream rape. You’ll never work in a fucking school again. Fuck, you’ll never work as a security guard again. You ugly fat fuck.” Principal Blackwell shot a glance at Sophia, whose face had turned remarkably pale. The recording rolled on.

“You’d do that?” My voice on the recording was mild. “You’d lie to ruin my reputation, just to get out of this?”

The sound of her laughter. “You don’t know who you’re fucking dealing with, you piece of shit.”

I hit STOP.

The silence in the room was deafening.

“I have it all,” I remarked. “From go to whoa. Including where Sophia tears her own top, then tells me she’s going to blame me for it.”

“You recorded us!” gasped Emma. “That’s illegal!”

“If I wanted to present this in a court of law, I would have had to inform you, yes,” I agreed, with a nod to Emma’s father. “But for something like this, it’s perfectly applicable.” I shrugged. “And Principal Blackwell knew about it, so ...”

Principal Blackwell was, at that moment, looking as though she had forgotten, and was wishing that she had not.

“I can play it all the way through,” I suggested.

Emma and Sophia suddenly had very thoughtful looks on their faces. They were obviously recalling everything else they had said in the bathroom, to my face.

Alan looked at Emma, and she shook her head slightly.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary at this point in time,” he said easily. “We can take it as given that the accusations against you were a little ... overblown.”

“In other words, false,” I said flatly.

“If ... you say so, yes,” he agreed. He paused, brow wrinkling. “Are you recording this meeting?”

“Why yes, yes I am,” I agreed. I pulled out my second recorder, and placed it beside the first. “And thank you, by the way, for admitting that the accusations against me are false.” I folded my hands. “Now, shall we get on?”

=//=//=​

“But there’s no proof that they did all these things that Taylor is accusing them of, in these written notes,” Alan Barnes pointed out.

“This is not a court of law, Alan,” Danny retorted wearily. “We don’t need ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ here. We have absolute proof that your daughter, along with the other two mentioned in all these notes, performed an act of criminal assault on my daughter. We have witnesses. They did it once, they could easily have done it before now.”

I sighed. We had done well to get this far, but Alan Barnes was proving remarkably tenacious. And with every go-around, Danny was getting closer to losing his temper, and Taylor wasn’t looking too happy either.

I raised a finger. “If I may ...?” I ventured.

Alan Barnes glared at me. “What?” he asked.

“Five minute break. I’d like to speak to the lady.” I indicated the woman who had come in to back up Sophia. Her head came up and she stared at me.

“Why?” she asked.

I raised an eyebrow. “For shame,” I said. “And spoil the surprise?”

=//=//=​

“Okay,” she said, once we were out of the room and away from everyone else. “What do you want to say to me that you can’t say to everyone else?”

“It’s simple,” I said. “I know that Sophia Hess is Shadow Stalker. A Ward.”

She stared, shocked.

“And I know that you’re PRT, and your job is to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble,” I went on.

Her jaw fell a few more degrees.

“And finally, I know that you’re pressuring the school to ignore what she does, so you can keep this cushy assignment,” I concluded.

I could have slapped her on the face with a wet fish and gotten a less stunned response.

“So, here’s the deal,” I said. “Fold. Cave. Tell Alan Barnes to pull his head in. And I don’t call Director Piggot directly, and tell her everything that Sophia’s been up to, including the locker incident, the flute, and, oh yes, the fact that she’s still using lethal arrows in her crossbows.”

She stared at me, obviously unable to take in most of what I was saying.

“The ... flute?” she said slowly.

“It belonged to Taylor Hebert,” I said patiently. “She got it from her mother. Sophia stole it from her locker, and ruined it. Because she felt like it.”

“I didn’t know about that,” she said. “How did you know about that? How do you know about any of that?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Not the question you should be asking yourself,” I pointed out.

She stared at me, unable to formulate a response. I sighed, pulled out my phone. Began to dial.

“Wait, wait,” she said.

I paused, looked enquiringly at her.

“What sort of punishment should they get?”

I took a deep breath. “In-school suspension. Till the end of the semester. No privileges either. No dances, access to school events, computers, or even any spots on teams or clubs.”

She stared at me. She was doing a lot of that. “That’s two and a half months!”

I shrugged. “They were at it for two and a half years.”

"That's impossible," she told me flatly.

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Sophia Hess had no contact with Taylor Hebert before two thousand and nine. She can't have been involved in bullying her at any earlier date."

"Ah." I smiled tightly. "I've been working off of faulty data." The eighteen month figure was correct. Seriously, could you have just gotten the details right? "But eighteen months still stands as a figure."

She nodded silently, compliant once more. “Sophia will have to be able to leave to carry out her duties,” she pointed out.

“Sure,” I said. “She can make up the time afterward.”

I knew, as she did not, that Leviathan would attack before this time was half over. But the punishment had to be in place first.

“Why are you being so harsh about this?” she asked.

I looked her in the eye. “Because I don’t like bullies,” I said flatly.

She took a deep breath, subsided. “They won’t like it,” she said.

“Two of them will,” I pointed out.

=//=//=​

“You can’t be serious!” stormed Alan Barnes. “What did he say to you?”

“That’s between me and him,” she snapped. “Now, those are the conditions. Principal Blackwell, given the obvious ongoing bullying campaign, I believe that this punishment is fair and just.”

Blackwell looked at Barnes, then at Sophia’s minder.

“Sophia is one of our best track stars,” she said weakly.

I shook my head. “And so she gets extra privileges? No. She does the crime, she does the time. Just like everyone else.”

“I agree,” gritted Sophia’s minder. “No privileges. No sports, no dances, no computers, no functions. In-school suspension until the end of the semester.”

Sophia was staring at her in utter betrayal. Then she turned to stare at me. I affected not to notice, put away one voice recorder, then the other.

“Would I have to take summer classes?” Madison piped up.

“There would be remedial classes if we took that route, yes,” the principal said. “It would be a drain on our resources. And we’re stretched thin as it is.”

I smiled. “I’m sure you could get outside help.” I turned to Sophia’s minder. “You could volunteer, for instance.”

She glowered at me. “I could do that, yes,” she ground out.

“Well, that’s settled, then. I’ll, ah, be outside,” I said blandly. “Oh, and by the way, Principal Blackwell? You may want to give Taylor the rest of the day off. She has suffered a fairly nasty bullying incident, after all. Just a suggestion.”

Letting myself out, I closed the door behind me.

Damn, I thought. But that felt good.

=//=//=​

The office door opened, and Alan Barnes emerged, with Madison’s parents. He gestured for them to go on, and turned to me.

“You sorry sack of shit,” he growled. “I’ll make you regret the day you ever set foot in this school.”

“Why, Mr Barnes, threats even,” I replied with a raised eyebrow. “I thought you would have learned from your daughter’s example.”

“What do –“ he began, then he paused. “Fuck. You recorded that?”

“Recording, Mr Barnes,” I corrected him, showing him the recorder with the little red LED glowing on it. “I think these long-life digital recorders are wonderful things, don’t you? They take all the drama out of I-said-you-said. Nails down who said what. Now ... you were saying?”

But he was already stomping down the hall.

I looked around as the door opened again. It was Danny and Taylor, this time.

Before they could speak, I held up one finger. Carefully, I turned the recorder off, and put it away. Danny chuckled, and Taylor grinned.

=//=//=​

“So she gave you the afternoon off?” I asked, as we strolled along the hallway toward the doors.

Taylor nodded. “She really did.” She turned, and offered her hand. “I want to thank you, for everything you’ve done.”

I shook it solemnly. “It was nothing that someone else shouldn’t have done already,” I told her.

“Yeah,” said Danny, “but no-one else did.” He shook my hand as well. “I really appreciate what you did for my daughter today. And I want to warn you ...”

I nodded. “Yeah, I gathered. Alan Barnes is a bad enemy. But if it comes down to doing the right thing, or covering my ass, I’d like to think I’d do the right thing.”

“Well, if you lose your job here over this,” he said, “come see me. I’m in charge of hiring at the Dockworkers’ Association, and we can always do with a reliable night watchman.”

I nodded. “I’ll definitely do that,” I grinned. “It’s gotta be less stressful than riding herd on a school full of delinquent ratbags.”

About to walk down the steps, Taylor turned toward me, one eyebrow raised. “Just one thing I’m curious about,” she said. “How did you know they were going to do that to me?”

I paused in thought. “Let’s just say ... I’m really good at my job.”

Danny slapped me on the arm. “And I’m damn glad to hear it,” he said.

“Ah,” I said. “Before you go.”

They paused, looking at me questioningly.

“Taylor, I strongly suggest that you get hold of a voice recorder of your own before Monday,” I said. “Keep it on you. Because you know they aren’t going to give up. They’ll just avoid doing it when I’m around.”

Danny nodded. “What do you say, kiddo?” he asked.

She nodded firmly. “Thanks, Mr Allen,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

“Hey, the name’s Mike with my friends,” I reminded her, and held out my fist.

She bumped it, and then she and her father walked away, down the steps. As they got into the car, she turned and waved. I waved back. They drove away.

I turned and walked back into the school.

Back to work, I thought.

But I was already thinking about what I had to do next.


End of Chapter Two

 

Security!

Chapter Three: Second Interaction


I headed back down the wide hallway, letting the doors swing shut behind me. In my mind, I was mulling over what I had just done.

I had used knowledge of the setting to do something that overturned canon. Taylor was not going to have the utterly crappy day that she would otherwise have had. Seeing the Trio get some level of comeuppance, as well as having the knowledge of all the bullying out in the open at last, had to be a weight off of her shoulders.

On Monday, she could come back into school, and the three main instigators would be undergoing in-school suspension. Placed into an empty classroom, observed by a teacher, they would undergo two and a half months of sheer boredom. They could study, yes. Read, yes. Attend classes or interact with the other students, no.

This did not mean that Taylor would be guaranteed a free pass as regarded the bullying; no doubt any one of the three could call up friends and cause other pranks to happen. But perhaps their enthusiasm would be dulled a little, knowing that the most popular girl in school, and her two friends, were suspended, and yet unable to leave the premises. The worst of both worlds.

In addition, if Taylor followed my advice and carried a voice recorder, she would be able to bring proof positive of any verbal bullying to me, or to a teacher. It kind of sucked that she had to do this in order to protect herself, but I had been forced to do much the same, once upon a time.

But what, I asked myself, does this mean to the story? I had not really believed, deep down, that I could do anything to change matters; I’d just tried to do what I could for Taylor. And it had worked. Worked, if I admitted it to myself, far better than I had hoped.

And now I was just a little scared.

What consequences would this have? What would happen, out of my sight, out of my ability to control, to the storyline, to the narrative?

How would it change things?

I pulled myself up short. Did this even matter? If this was a dream, then whatever I did would vanish the moment I woke up, back in boring, mundane, Earth-without-a-designator.

And yet ...

What if this wasn’t a dream? Because it wasn’t like any dream I had ever had before. Especially not like my previously experienced lucid dreams. Normally, in those, I tended to take control and give myself super-powers. Flight, mostly. Also, once I realised I was dreaming, I tended to wake up pretty quickly.

Okay, I told myself, and realised that I had been subconsciously putting this moment off, in the urgency of wanting to do right by Taylor Hebert. Lucid dream test number one. I can fly.

I took a deep breath. Looked down at my work boots; black, scuffed, steel toed, solid. They were planted firmly on the floor. I willed myself up.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Right. Maybe it’s because I’ve been in the dream so long that the rules are set. Flight isn’t an option. Okay. Test number two. Square a two-digit number between ten and ninety-nine.

I had found that no matter how lucid the dream felt, logic was hard to come by. Dreams worked off the less logical aspects of the brain; they were more about imagination and creativity than thinking in straight lines.

The squaring trick was a math shortcut I had learned years ago; it was easy to do. When you were awake, that is. In a dream, not so much.

Seventy-six. Okay. Four nine three six plus eight four zero. Five … seven seven six.

I was unnerved by how easy it was. There was no stumbling, no reaching for numbers. I formulated the answer, checked it mentally. It worked out.

Which meant ...

Mentally, I reeled. Physically, I reached out and leaned against the wall for a moment.

Holy Christ on a pogo stick. I’m really here. I’m really in Brockton Bay. In the Wormverse.

The geeky fanboy in me went squee.

The rest of me went oh shit.

The world ends in two years.

Fuck.

And then my reverie was interrupted; I looked up to see Principal Blackwell advancing upon me with intent.

“Mr Allen,” she said curtly. “My office, if you please. I would like a word.”

=///=​

I was surprised to note that I actually welcomed the intrusion. It let me focus, get myself centred again. If this was my ‘real world’ now, for better or for worse, then I had to get my head in the game. And right now, right here, this was my game.

I'd think about how I actually got here later. As a fanfic writer, I could reel off a dozen theories. Most of which were probably flawed. So I'd leave it till later.

I followed the principal back to her office. She set a steady pace, heels clicking on the floor. I matched it, boots thumping.

She entered her office, and moved to sit behind her desk. I closed the door behind us, stood with my hands clasped behind my back. Waited for her to speak.

She took her time; for someone who wanted a word, it seemed to me, she wasn’t being very talkative.

“Mr Allen,” she said at last, a severe tone to her voice. “Do you know exactly how much trouble you have caused the school?”

“A certain amount,” I admitted. “However …” I added, as she began to speak again.

“However?” she asked, brows furrowing.

“However,” I said, “This could have been much worse. I stopped the bullying as a school employee. This makes you look better. If the bullying had come out another way, been reported from the outside, for instance,” I went on, “it could have had a far greater impact on the good name of the school.” I cleared my throat. “I had a look at some of those things that the girls apparently did to her. Even discounting the locker incident ...”

I saw her flinch. Good.

“... there are incidences of her being pushed down stairs by Sophia Hess. Physically attacked. In small ways, of course, but all it takes is one miscalculation, and you have a student with a serious injury and absolutely no reason not to have this school sued down to the bedrock. And Mr Hebert does have a friend in the media. If they got word of this bullying …”

She rallied. I had to admire her tenacity. “This isn’t about the bullying. This is about you taking unilateral decisions that affect the school. Recruiting teachers for your little antics, bursting into the girls’ bathrooms, recording them without their permission ...”

“... nipping quite a nasty bullying incident in the bud,” I carried on. “Performing my job, in fact. Carrying out the duties I was hired for.” I raised an eyebrow. “So is it the fact that I didn’t ask you for permission first, the fact that I caught the popular girls bullying someone, or the fact that Sophia Hess got in trouble that you have a problem with, Ms Blackwell?”

She took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and controlled. “When you perform activities like this in future, Mr Allen, you will clear it with me first.”

I tilted my head slightly. “Clear it with you, as in let you know I’m doing it, or clear it with you as in ask permission first?”

She went to speak, then paused, eyeing me suspiciously. “Are you recording this conversation?”

I brought my hands out from behind my back. One held a voice recorder. The little red LED was glowing.

“Turn that off,” she ordered.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Principal Blackwell, but I will have to respectfully decline that request.”

“That wasn’t a request,” she snapped. “That was an order!”

“Indeed,” I agreed. “All of your orders are legitimate, yes?”

“Of course they are!” she told me.

“So where is the problem with recording them?”

“Because I find it very off-putting to have someone recording my every word,” she retorted.

“Doing so earlier may well have saved my career,” I pointed out. “It’s done so in the past. I prefer to be safe rather than sorry. So. My previous question stands. When you say to clear something with you, do you mean to merely let you know, or do I have to ask permission?”

She paused, a long moment. “You know, I could have you fired for insubordination,” she said levelly. She wasn’t rattled easily. I was impressed.

“You could,” I agreed. “Of course, the school board would then be requesting my report, which will be backed up by my voice recordings.” I folded my hands in front of me; in them, the voice recorder sat, the little LED glowing like a malevolent red eye.

“Report,” she repeated hollowly.

“Report,” I confirmed. “In copious detail. Including the toilet stall doors that only open outward, not inward, allowing this whole bullying incident to take place. Which should have been fixed years ago, but no-one seemed to know or care about them. “ I paused. “I could go on, but your time is valuable.”

My tone was dead level, neither accusing nor gloating. Matter-of-fact. Simple, direct. No emotional content. I found it was the best way to apply pressure to someone. Don’t give them something they can lash back at.

“Fine,” she grated. “You need to tell me what you’ll be doing, if you’re doing anything out of the ordinary. Just to give me a heads-up. I do not need this sort of surprise again.”

I nodded. “That’s fair,” I agreed. “And I apologise for not doing it today. I will correct that in future.”

She nodded, halfway mollified by my tone. It’s hard to stay angry at someone who has just admitted fault. “You can go. We may talk again later.”

I nodded. “Thank you, Ms Blackwell,” I said. I turned and was reaching for the door-handle, when I paused.

“Actually,” I said, turning back, “I just had an idea. Something that might just keep the Heberts off your back. Reduce the chance of bad publicity from this.”

She looked up at me, a little startled. “Explain,” she said.

“Suppose you offered to have Taylor transferred to Arcadia,” I suggested. “Gets her out of Winslow, away from the girls who were bullying her. Reduces your level of hassle, and makes you look like the good guy. Taking her out of the problem situation.”

Blackwell rubbed her chin. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Jurisdictional issues ...”

I spread my hands. “Once she’s enrolled in Arcadia, she’s out of your hair. No longer your problem. It’s a win-win situation.”

She nodded, brightening. “There is that.” A pause. “It might take a couple of weeks for things to go through. Arcadia already has a waiting list through the roof.”

I shrugged. “Hey, so long as you’re seen to be doing something.”

She glanced at me warily. I mustered my best sincere expression.

“Indeed,” she said grudgingly. She waved at the door. “I will take your suggestion under advisement. You can go.”

I went.

=///=​

I patrolled the school corridors. Between classes, students eyed me; somehow, by some arcane osmosis, the details of the lunchtime incident had reached many ears. No doubt it had been considerably altered in the telling, but they were eyeing me with what I hoped was wary respect.

No-one spoke to me this time, which was fine. I wasn’t after the popularity. I just wanted to get the job done, and done right.

Besides, it gave me a chance to think. To plan.

Today was the eighth of April. On the tenth, the Sunday, Taylor was due to go out and encounter first Lung and then the Undersiders.

Would what I had done here in the school influence that?

I hoped not.

On the fourteenth, after joining the Undersiders, she would help rob a bank. In doing so, she would encounter ... ah.

I had to do something about that.

Also, there was the other thing that would happen that day.

I paced the corridors, working my way through things.

I couldn’t plan too far ahead. But I could make some plans.

Here’s hoping they survive contact with the enemy.

=///=​

The last class ended. I watched as students dumped their books in their lockers, streamed out of the school. And the monotonous patrol began, checking all the rooms, all the bathrooms. Making sure no-one was hiding away to perform mischief over the weekend.

No-one was; I went back to the staff room, to finish my last sandwich, and to have a moment of peace and quiet before setting out again.

To my surprise, Mrs Knott looked in, and came in once she saw me.

“Mr Allen,” she said with a half-smile. “You certainly put the cat among the pigeons on your first day.”

I chuckled. “I suppose I did.” Standing up, I offered my hand. “Thanks for backing me up. It was really appreciated.”

She shook; her grip was firm, decisive. “I must admit, I had my doubts, but you seemed to know your business. And I would not have picked those girls as bullies. But the language from the Hess girl ...” She shook her head.

I shrugged. “They do it once, and they get away with it. So they do it again. It becomes a habit.”

She nodded. “I see what you mean. But I am glad that you managed to help Taylor. She’s in my home room class, and she’s a delight to teach. Always attentive, does her work on time.” A frown. “A real pity, what was done to her.”

“Yeah,” I said flatly. “Been there. Not about to let it happen to someone else.”

“I see,” she said understandingly. She put her hand on my arm; I blinked. “If you ever want to get coffee sometime, talk about it,” she said softly, “all you have to do is ask.”

I blinked again. This was not something I had anticipated. “Uh ... isn’t there a Mr Knott?” I asked. “I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes, here.”

She chuckled dryly. “He traded me in on a younger model, I’m afraid. We kept the divorce quiet.” She raised an eyebrow. “Is this a problem?”

“I ...” I cleared my throat. “No, no. It’s not. I’ll talk to you sometime. About coffee.”

“That would be nice,” she said, and smiled. She had a sweet smile. We exchanged contact information and she let herself out; I sat again, staring at the opposite wall.

Mrs Knott. I don’t even know what to think about that.

=///=​

I greeted the cleaners as they came in. Chatted with them for a while. I get along well with cleaners; they do a rough job, cleaning up after people who have no concept of cleanliness. They were interested to find that Winslow now had a security guard.

I told them about the fruit juice and soda spill in the third floor girls’ bathrooms, and the basic details about what had happened. They expressed satisfaction that the culprits had been caught.

“Thanks for letting us know about it,” said the boss, a nuggety little woman who had to be ten years my senior, and lugging around a back-mounted vacuum cleaner that looked like it weighed half what she did. “We’ll sort that out first off.” She lifted her chin slightly. “Any graffiti?”

“None that I saw,” I admitted. “I might have missed something, though.”

“A Friday without graffiti,” said one of the others, a blonde girl about half my age. “Wonders will never cease.”

“Might have had something to do with the interfering bugger in a security uniform walking around poking his nose into everything,” I suggested lightly. There were general chuckles.

“Anyway,” I said, “I’ll let you get on.” They began to sort out their gear, and I strolled on.

=///=​

At five on the dot, I signed out, and signed the keys back into the book in Blackwell’s desk. She had left half an hour earlier, so I let myself in, signed the book, and dropped the keys on to the hook she had taken them from. The door locked behind me as I pulled it to.

I walked down the long echoing corridors, past the rows of lockers, and out through the doors to the parking lot. The sun was still up; I slung my bag over my shoulder and strolled down to the bus stop.

I had more time to think on the bus ride back to my apartment. The bus was crowded with commuters in rumpled suits and ties, who chatted to each other, and tended to ignore me. This suited me; I sat in a pool of silence, and looked out the window at the skyline.

I had a huge responsibility to this world. I knew things. Things that no-one else knew. Game changers. Things that people needed to know.

The one big trouble, as I saw it, was that I was a nobody. A cipher. I had no credibility. An overweight security guard, receding hair going grey, a relatively neatly trimmed – at the moment – vanDyke beard, also going grey. A dime a dozen.

I had to get their attention and hold it long enough to give them the information that they needed to know ... and I had to do it in such a way that I would not end up in an interrogation cell. Or dead. Dead was a distinct possibility. Especially in five weeks’ time, when Leviathan hit Brockton Bay.

The city I was in.

I felt a cold chill go down my back. I hoped it wasn’t some kind of premonition.

=///=​

Back at the flat, I had more pressing problems to deal with. The first thing I did was change out of my uniform into something more comfortable. The second thing I did was check to see if the me that lived here had Christmas decorations stashed away anywhere.

Unfortunately, he was like me; nada.

It was getting on toward six. I had noticed a laptop that morning; I went to where it was sitting, and booted it up.

Once again, the tabs and folders were where I would have left them; I went online and looked for local late-opening variety stores. Then I found my car keys.

Just as I was about to head out the door, my mobile rang.

“Uh, hello?” I asked.

“Mr Allen.” It was a familiar voice. “This is Danny Hebert.”

“Hello, Mr Hebert,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“Call me Danny, please,” he said.

“Only if you call me Mike,” I riposted.

“Sure thing, Mike,” he replied, readily enough. “Listen, I got a phone call a while ago from Principal Blackwell. About Taylor transferring to Arcadia. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Well, damn, I thought. She went for it.

“I might have had something to do with suggesting it,” I confirmed. “It was really just a half-assed idea.”

“Well, it’s a half-assed idea that Taylor loves, and I’m thinking might just work out for us,” Danny replied.

“Huh,” I said. “Well, good. I’m glad.”

“So yeah,” said Danny. “We’re having a little bit of a celebration tomorrow night. Cook up some steaks, invite people over. I’m having people from work come in. And I’d like to invite you, if you don’t mind. Given your part in all this.” He paused. “Unless you’ve got plans, of course. If you’ve got plans, it’s fine. We’ll understand.”

I paused, for the longest time. What the hell was I supposed to answer to that?

“Mike?” asked Danny. “You there?”

“I’m here, Danny,” I said, making a snap decision. “I’d be glad to come. Thanks.”

“Excellent,” he said. “Six o’clock.”

“Six it is,” I agreed. “Uh ... I don’t know your address.”

He laughed, and told me. I wrote it down. “See you then,” I said.

“See you then,” he agreed, and hung up. I closed my phone.

First Mrs Knott invites me for coffee, and now Danny Hebert is inviting me to a party at his house. A party I know for a fact they didn’t have in canon.

Christ, I’m stirring up swarms of butterflies.

But I couldn’t worry about that, right at that moment. I had an hour and a half of daylight left. And I had shopping to do.

=///=​

My vehicle of choice was apparently a two-wheel-drive pickup, not unlike the one I had been driving, in my former life, for over twenty years. There was a book of maps on the dashboard, just like the one I carried in my own car.

I thumbed through it, located the appropriate address. Worked out the route from where I lived to the variety store. Drove out the driveway, and promptly got lost.

I should have been there in ten minutes. It took me nearer to fifty. I was too used to knowing exactly where I was in the city at any time; the innate knowledge a taxi driver picks up stays with him long after he leaves the profession. I was used to that with my home town; this was not my home town.

At least my reflexes were working for the actual driving. I wasn’t used to driving on the right, but apparently my body was, and so I didn’t do anything embarrassing, like swing into oncoming traffic. I pulled into the parking lot, parked, and headed into the variety store.

=///=​

They had exactly what I wanted, and for a ridiculously low price. I watched them bag my purchase up, then pulled out my wallet. There wasn’t quite enough in cash to cover it, so I pulled out what had to be an eftpos card. Swiped it.

Now was the moment of truth; was Michael Allen like enough to me to have the same PIN for his cards?

I hit the four digits, then pressed ENTER.

The machine paused for the longest time ... and then printed out a receipt. I tried not to sag too obviously in relief.

The store clerk watched me pick up my purchase, and frowned in puzzlement.

I grinned at him. “I like to start decorating early,” I explained.

“You certainly do,” he agreed. “What are you going to need all that for?”

“A really, really big tree,” I said cheerfully.

As I left the store, he was shaking his head.

=///=​

Back in the car, I checked the map again, figured out what I’d done wrong, and got back to the apartment in under fifteen minutes. Then I went through my purchases.

Heavy duty adhesive cable guides, check. Two large power boards, check. Half a dozen sets of Christmas lights, check. Half a dozen extension cords, check.

The first thing I did was plug in everything, connect it up, and make sure it all worked. One of the Christmas tree light sets had a dodgy plug, with plastic flash still adhering; using my pocket knife, I trimmed it a little, and plugged it in again. It worked fine the second time. With the Christmas tree lights spread out over the living room floor, the place looked bizarrely festive.

Then I started attaching cable guides, and feeding the extension cords and Christmas lights through them. Crossing back and forth over each window. Tacked up to the back of the front door, crossing back and forth again. No space, I hoped, that even a slender Shadow Stalker could ease her way through.

As I did each window, I turned it on. By the time I was finished, the place was ablaze with festive lights from all directions. I pulled the curtains; that cut it down quite a bit. Shutting the bedroom door also helped a lot.

When I was finished, I had one set of Christmas lights to spare. I coiled it loosely and put it to one side. I also located an accessory I had found useful from time to time, and plugged it in to charge.

I decided to pause for dinner. There were microwave meals in the fridge. I put one on to heat, then I sat down at the laptop again. A short search later, I had the number I was looking for. I stored it on my phone. Then I did another search. This got me an email address.

The microwave dinged, and I got out the plate of chicken something. It was always chicken something, even if the meal didn’t include chicken at all. I wondered if there was a gym nearby. Then I wondered if it would really matter.

While I ate, I worked out in my mind what I wanted to say. One message was going to be simple, direct, unambiguous. The other would involve talking to someone. And I really, really didn’t want to push her away.

I finished the meal, tossed the plastic dish in the trash can. Rinsed the cutlery.

It wasn’t hard to create a throwaway email address. Hotmail was good for that. I worked at the user name, until I had one with “security” in it, that didn’t look too stupid.

Taking a deep breath, I composed the email.

I looked over the email. Thought about including a small preface, “this is why I am telling you this” or something similar. Decided against it.

Then I did add something else.

Then I looked over my shoulder. No doorways were opening into an otherworldly room. What I was doing apparently wasn’t enough to get Cauldron’s attention quite yet. This was a good thing.

I hit SEND. It would go to the PRT information line. Hopefully their automated systems would pick out the hot-button words that I had included, and kick it to the head of the queue. Even more hopefully, Dragon would interpret the last line correctly.

I leaned back in my chair and picked up my phone. My heart was beating faster now. I was starting to wade in very dangerous waters indeed.

I fiddled with my phone until I was fairly certain that my number would not show up on Caller ID. Then I called up the number that I had saved. Pressed the green button.

The phone rang. A male voice answered. “Yamada household. Who is this?”

“I’m very sorry to disturb you,” I said, “but could I please speak to Doctor Jessica Yamada? It is a matter of urgency. It’s to do with her work.”

“It’s Friday evening,” he replied, sounding mildly irritated. “How important is this?”

I took a deep breath. “Please tell her it’s about a potential A-class threat.”

She was on the line moments later.

=///=​

“Thank you, Doctor Yamada,” I said, just a little after that. “I truly appreciate this. If we can pull this off, we’ll be saving two people from a world of torment.” I paused. “Sorry again for interrupting your Friday evening. Have a good night.”

She sighed. “I suppose my work never leaves me alone at the best of times. I will be waiting for your call.”

She hung up. I closed my phone. God, I hope this works, I told myself.

After that, there was nothing left to do but wait.

=///=​

The human brain is not good at waiting. It’s very hard to go a long period of time without having something to fixate on, and that can very quickly lead to a loss of concentration. However, after ten years of being a security guard, especially with long nights of static guard work, I had gotten used to it.

Besides, I was fairly certain that she wouldn’t arrive too much after midnight.


She arrived at five minutes past one.

I had the lights off and the TV on, with the sound muted. All entries to the apartment were blocked, except through the front door; I had those Christmas lights turned off.

It was fairly dark in the flat; I was sitting on the sofa, across the room from the TV. The muted glow of the Christmas lights came through the curtains, but not enough to illuminate the room in any way.

I saw the smoky form pass through the door, reform on the inside. In the glow of the TV, I could see the crossbow in her hand. She looked dark, dangerous, intent on murder.

The snk as I turned on the voice recorder was so minuscule as to be unheard at any normal time of day, but such was the stillness, the silence with which she was moving, that she heard it. Or perhaps she just sensed my presence on the sofa.

She turned toward me with a great cat’s grace, the crossbow coming into line, pointing at my chest.

She could have pointed it at my face, with a much greater chance of hurting me, but there were two factors deciding against that. One was that she didn’t know about my stab vest. The other was that I was wearing a white shirt under an open black jacket, and that my chest was basically a rectangle of fluorescent white against a black and grey background. So she aimed directly at that very tempting target.

“You,” she snarled.

“Me,” I agreed. “Can I help you?”

She seemed startled by this, then she laughed harshly. “Can you fucking help me. What the fuck is this? I’m going to fucking kill you, you fat fuck.”

“Why?” I asked. “What did I ever do to you?”

“You fucked with me, asshole,” she snarled, taking a step toward me, her aim dead steady. “It was none of your fucking business what I do to who, and you had to stick your nose in. You fucking got me in-school suspension. And they’re gonna be looking hard at me, seeing if there’s a way to boot me back to juvey without looking too bad.”

“So your handler’s not able to whitewash it this time, huh, Sophia?” I observed sympathetically.

“How the fuck did you know about that?” she demanded.

“I’m good at my job,” I said mildly. “Anyway. Isn’t murder a little bit over the top for what I did?”

Shadow Stalker drew a deep breath. “I don’t lose,” she gritted. “Not to disgusting old fat fucks like you. So you’re gonna die in a tragic home invasion gone wrong, they’re gonna find kiddie porn on your computer, then Emma’s father is going to speak to the principal. You’re shown up as a pedo freak, everything you’ve said and done is thrown out, the suspension is lifted, and life goes on. I fucking win.”

“Really,” I said.

“Yeah,” she gritted. “Really. What are you gonna fuckin’ do? I’ve got a crossbow pointed right at your fucking heart.”

I didn’t say a word; I just flicked the switch of the hand-held spotlight.

It was a very useful accessory. Looking rather like a normal flashlight, it held a rechargeable wet-cell battery and could throw a beam two hundred yards. Fully charged, it had an output of ten million candlepower. At a range of ten yards, the impact of the beam was painful, and made it impossible to see virtually anything.

At a range of ten feet, the effect was that much more devastating.

Shadow Stalker screamed and threw up her arm to block the light. I came up off the sofa, the spotlight in my left hand, my extendable baton – already extended – in my right. She saw or heard something, and triggered the crossbow. I felt the thump, right in the middle of the plate over my heart.

My right arm came up, then brought the baton down toward her head. She must have spotted it; she went ghostlike.

Exactly as planned.

With my left hand, I tossed the spotlight, still switched on, through her.

The wet-cell battery, still pouring power through that halogen bulb, encountered her shadowy form. She screamed and solidified, crumpling to the floor.

“That,” I said, panting slightly.

=///=​

Before long, I had her firmly secured with the last set of Christmas tree lights. As a final touch, I cuffed her hands behind her back. Stepping back, I admired the picture she made. She was certainly the most festive prisoner I had ever seen. Red and green lights blinked on and off around her body.

I was sitting on the sofa, with the lights on and the TV off, when she finally stirred and began to look around. I’m not sure how long she was awake before that, but I wasn’t about to throw a glass of cold water in her face to wake her up.

I had her utility belt off, and I was examining the contents. Most of it I left in place, but I found her two phones, one old and scuffed, and one relatively new.

“Hey, leave my shit alone!” she shouted.

“It’s all good,” I said. “I’m leaving most of it alone. Like your arrows. So very interesting.” I held up the phones. “Bringing your personal phone to work? Wow. What if someone got hold of it?”

“It’s locked,” she said sullenly.

“True,” I said. “And to be honest, I can’t get into it. But I bet some people could. The right sort of Tinker, for instance.”

“Look,” she said. “Just let me go. I won’t go near you again. We can call it quits.”

I shook my head regretfully. “Sorry, kid. I’d always be looking over my shoulder.”

Getting up, I pulled her hood down over her head. Then I used her cloak to wrap around it, muffling her eyes and ears.

“Hey!” she yelled, barely audible. “Fuck you! What is this?”

“This,” I said out loud, “is so that I can make phone calls without interruptions.”

Sitting back on the sofa, I pulled out my own mobile and dialled a number. Three digits.

“You have called nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“I’ve been attacked by a cape,” I said clearly. “I would like the PRT and the Protectorate.”

“Putting you through to the PRT emergency line now. Do you need medical assistance?”

“I’m good, thanks,” I replied.

There was a series of clicks, then a new voice came on to the line, a woman.

“You have reached the Parahuman Response Teams. Please state your name and the nature of your emergency.”

“My name is Michael Allen. I have been attacked in my own home by the Ward known as Shadow Stalker. Please send someone over to pick her up.”

There was a long pause.

“Sir, are you sure that you have the genuine Shadow Stalker in your home? It’s possible that you have an imposter there.”

“Sure, it’s possible,” I said. “Ring her phone. I have it beside me. And no matter who it is, I still want someone to come and take her off my hands. She’s cluttering up my floor.”

“Sir, are you in any danger at the current moment? Say ‘all good’ if you are, and ‘please help’ if you are not.”

I grinned. This woman was on the ball. “Please help. I repeat, please help.”

“Understood, Mr Allen. Please hold.”

The hold music wasn’t too bad, actually.


The next thing that happened was that Shadow Stalker’s phone rang. I picked it up and put it to my other ear. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I could not resist. “You have reached Shadow Stalker’s phone. She can’t come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?”

The voice on the other end of the line was hard, firm, decisive. “Who is this, and why do you have Shadow Stalker’s phone?”

I sighed. “My name is Michael Allen. I’m a security guard. Shadow Stalker broke into my home and tried to kill me. I have her tied up on my living room floor. Who do I have to call to come and take her away?”

“Do not hang up,” he said. “I am en route. Does either of you require medical assistance?”

“Not that I know of, though she’s taken a fairly nasty electric shock,” I said. “She seems to have survived the experience reasonably well.” I paused. “Uh … who is this?”

“This is Armsmaster,” he replied.

=///=​

Moments later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and there he stood. Over six feet tall in his armour, blue and silver, imposing, impressive.

Armsmaster.

Even though I knew how much of a dick he was going to be to Taylor, I could not help but feel intimidated, impressed, humbled.

“Hi,” I said, holding out my hand. “Mike Allen.”

He shook it, staring at me. “You do know you have an arrow sticking out of your chest.”

I nodded. “She shot me with it. I thought it better to leave it in place. Evidence.”

He didn’t look particularly reassured, until I tapped my chest with my finger. “Stab vest. She hit the trauma plate. It didn’t go all the way through.”

“Ah.” He stepped past me, toward the bound figure on my floor.

“Just by the way,” I said. “I’m aware of her secret identity. I work at Winslow, and Principal Blackwell had me sign an NDA.”

He looked back at me, nodded, then back down at Shadow Stalker. Crouching, he unwound the cape from around her head.

“About time, you cocksucking motherfucking –“ she began, before she realised who it was she was talking to.

“And that’s why I wrapped her head up,” I commented dryly.

“I see,” observed Armsmaster. He looked down at Shadow Stalker. “Would you mind explaining yourself?”

“Don’t believe a fucking word he says!” she burst out. “He called me here, said he had a lead for me, and he tied me up and molested me!”

I cleared my throat. Armsmaster looked around at me. I handed him the voice recorder. He pressed the button to start it running.

“I don’t lose,” grated Shadow Stalker’s voice from the speaker. “Not to disgusting old fat fucks like you. So you’re gonna die in a tragic home invasion gone wrong, they’re gonna find kiddie porn on your computer, then Emma’s father is going to speak to the principal. You’re shown up as a pedo freak, everything you’ve said and done is thrown out, the suspension is lifted, and life goes on. I fucking win.”

He pressed the button to stop the recording, then looked down at Shadow Stalker.

“Second time she’s tried the molesting angle today,” I commented mildly. “Tried it earlier, when I caught her and two other girls bullying another girl, at school.”

I had to pause, as Sophia went into a diatribe of monumental proportions, screaming invective of every nature at me, at voice recorders, at the profession of security guarding, and at the world in general. I was quite impressed by her command of profanity; I had to wonder where she’d gotten some of it from.

=///=​

In the end, he took my statement, and made copies of my voice recordings, while we sat and waited for a PRT van to arrive. I was careful about my wording, only stating that I had clashed with Sophia over the bullying incident at the school, and that Principal Blackwell had informed me of Sophia’s status as a Ward.

“And so you set a trap for her,” he observed.

“It seemed like a sensible thing to do,” I commented. “She didn’t strike me as the sort of person to give up easily. And I’d rather not have to watch my back all the time.”

“It was dangerous,” he said. “She could have shot you.”

“She did shoot me,” I pointed out. “I actually planned for that. My chest made a bigger and brighter target than my face.”

He had taken pictures of the arrow from all directions, then pulled it from the stab vest. It took some pulling, as the force of the crossbow had wedged it hard into the trauma plate.

I paused. “So what happens now?”

“She will go before a disciplinary hearing,” he said. “These new facts will be presented. I can’t see it going well for her.”

“Will I be needing to come in?” I asked.

“The Director might want to ask you some questions,” he admitted. “But apart from that, no.”

I nodded. “I’m good after five on weekdays, and before six tomorrow,” I said.

“Noted,” he replied, and got up from the chair he’d been sitting in.

Moments later, the living room seemed full of PRT soldiers; they accepted my handcuff keys, removing the cuffs before putting on a specialised set that no doubt incorporated electrical restraints. I pulled the plug on the Christmas lights, and told them to cut the cord off of her.

Shortly thereafter, she was marched out the door. I handed Armsmaster her utility belt and phones, he nodded and took possession of them.

“Uh .. one thing,” I said. “You might want to have her private phone checked for incriminating texts to do with the bullying of one Taylor Hebert. Just a thought.”

He nodded. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mr Allen. If we need anything else from you, we will be in touch.”

I nodded. “I’m just glad I could be of help.”

“One more thing,” he said. “Mr Allen, do you have parahuman powers of any sort?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Just a standard baseline human. Why?”

“No reason,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

He turned and strode off down the corridor. I closed the door, and locked it. And then, just for the hell of it, turned on the Christmas lights that decorated it.

That was when the shakes started.

For the next ten minutes, I strode from one end of the living room to the other, holding myself, shaking uncontrollably.

Holy shit, I told myself. Holy shit. Shadow Stalker and Armsmaster. In my flat. Right here. Holy shit.

If I was a drinking man, that would have been when I would have gotten thoroughly wasted. But I wasn’t, and so I didn’t. Instead, I took a hot shower. It helped me work through things.

=///=​

When I came out, feeling much calmer, I decided that I’d go to bed. I’d been up far too long as it was. But when I went to shut my computer down, an email notification popped up.

Curious, I clicked on it.

The email had no name on the Sender line. It was blank.

In the message space, there was a single line of text.

Hello, Mr Allen. We need to talk.

Something caught my eye; looking up, I noticed that the camera light was on.

I cleared my throat. It was suddenly very dry.

“Hello, Dragon,” I said.


End of Chapter Three

 

Security!

Chapter Four: Third Interaction


“Hello, Dragon,” I said.

“Hello, Mr Allen,” came the human-sounding voice over the laptop’s speaker. “Or should I call you Mike?”

Oh yeah, I realised. She’s got my number. But I didn’t intend to speak to her here and now, not with Saint listening in.. It’s late; Saint might not be monitoring her activity. But then again, he might.

I’ve got to do this right. Ugh.

On the downside, it was closer to two than to one. I had been up for far too long.

On the upside, the shower had revived me somewhat. I hastily improvised a plan.

“Sure, Mike will do,” I said, and took a deep breath. “Look, it’s nice to talk to you –“ I blinked heavily, “ – and all, but I have –“ another deliberate blink, “ – this thing I gotta take care of. There’s a –“ blink, “ – problem with my sink. Some sort of leak.” Blink.

I stretched and yawned. She didn’t respond. The camera light stayed on. No, it didn’t. It flickered, just once. A wink?

“Ugh,” she replied. “I really hate when that happens.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “tell me about it.” I rubbed my ear with my left hand, scratching my eye with my pinky at the same time. “Seeing as I’m not thinking,” I said, then dropped my hand away, “too clearly at the moment, I might just go to bed. But could you do me a favour?”

I waited; after a moment, she responded. “Yes.” A deliberate pause. ”What’s the favour?”

I yawned again. “I wanna drop by and see Col and his Lady boss tomorrow, talk about some stuff that’s bothering me. Figure you can drop them the word, ask them not to keep me talking too long? I got places to be.”

“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll pass that on.”

“Thanks, D,” I said. “Ciao for now.”

“Good night, Mike,” she said. The camera light winked off; for good, this time.

I shut the laptop down, hoping like hell that Dragon had gotten my hastily-improvised code and that Saint had not.

Flicking off the lights, I went to bed.

=//=//=​

Saint reached for the coffee cup and frowned when he discovered that it was empty. Whoever that moron that Dragon had been talking to was, he’d yawned twice, and now Geoff was also yawning.

He got up to go get fresh coffee. He yawned again.

Dammit.

=//=//=​

Dragon mulled over the message.

Exhaustive analysis of this mysterious Mr Allen’s facial gestures and words had come up with the most likely meaning.

You have a leak. Saint has eyes and ears on you. I’m going to see Director Piggot and Armsmaster tomorrow and talk to them about my email; please ask them not to detain me.

Mr Allen seemed to know things that no-one could know. No Thinker in the world could predict an Endbringer attack, and yet he had cited date and location. He had also provided what was, if true, invaluable information on two of the most feared members of the Slaughterhouse Nine.

He could be a charlatan, a delusional, a professional liar ... or he could be genuine.

Whichever it was, his warning had been loud and clear. Far better to heed it, and be circumspect, than ignore it and chance that it might be true.

Carefully, she began to compose two emails.

=//=//=​

Taylor woke up.

She threw off the covers and bounced out of bed. It was a wonderful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing. Dad had the radio on in the bathroom as he showered.

She suspected that it would still be a wonderful day if it was pouring rain, with hailstones the size of grapefruit. The events of the previous day played through her mind once more; emerging from the toilet cubicle to see the security guard facing down the other three, asking her what had happened. Paying attention to her. Taking the matter to the principal. Lending her his phone to call Dad.

She was grinning all over her face as she changed into her running gear, and trotted down the stairs. She had no idea how he had pulled it off, but just a few minutes’ talking with the woman who had been supporting Sophia, and the deadlock with Mr Barnes had broken. In-school suspensions for all of them. And the option to transfer to Arcadia for herself. In her wildest daydreams, she had never imagined this might happen.

Shutting the back door behind her, she let herself out the chain-link gate at the side of the house, and started on her run. She felt full of boundless energy. An adult, not her Dad, had stood up for her, had pushed hard for her, had helped her.

Taylor decided that she respected Mr Allen all the more for his admission that he had been bullied, just like her. He knew what she was going through, and he had made the effort to put a stop to it.

In a warm glow of happiness, she ran on.

=//=//=​

Director Emily Piggot sipped at her coffee as her desktop booted up. It churned through the usual security checks and scans – what she privately called its ‘electronic Master/Stranger protocols’ – before presenting the day’s business.

At the front of the queue were two emails; one was marked Priority by Dragon herself, while the other one was actually from Dragon.

She opened the priority mail first. The “urgent” tag line made her snort; everything that crossed her desk was urgent to someone.

And then she read the body of the mail. Halfway through, she registered what she was reading, and started again from the top. She read it twice all the way to the bottom, noting the single-word signature.

“Security?” she said out loud.

Setting aside the emails for a moment, she opened another window. Her nails rattled on the keys. Ten seconds later, she had her answer. There was no cape registered under that name.

Frowning, sipping her coffee once more, she read through the mail once more. She would be inclined to dismiss it as a potential hoax, except that the writing was simple, precise, informative, and ... “If this is real ...” she muttered.

Also, Dragon had marked it Priority. Which meant that there was possibly something to it. Or at least, Dragon thought so.

The postscript was a little puzzling, of course. She had no idea who Ms Richter was, or who this thief was supposed to be; perhaps this was some sort of code phrase that Dragon had picked up on. She would have to ask, when she got the chance.

She paged to the second mail. Her eyebrows hitched up as she read it.

It was a request, simple on the surface, that a specific visitor to the PRT building be allowed to leave once his business was concluded.

The question was, why would she not allow someone to leave?

The answer was a mouse-click away; she went back to the first email.

Dragon had not said as much, but the inference was plain; the visitor was going to be this mysterious “Security”. And Dragon wanted him to be allowed to go free. Also, that Armsmaster be present for the meeting.

She sat for a moment in thought. Then she picked up the phone, and dialled.

“Colin?” she said. “Emily. I’m going to need you here today, I’m afraid. We have an unusual situation.”

She paused. “Oh. She already contacted you. Well, I’ll see you soon.”

Putting the phone down, she read through the first email again, even though she could have quoted it word for word by now. “If this is real ...” she muttered again.

=//=//=​

My alarm clock woke me at five thirty. I turned it off, rolled over and went back to sleep.

It was closer to nine when I stirred again. I opened my eyes, looked at the unfamiliar alarm clock, then at the poster on the wall.

Oh, right. Not a dream.

It would have been kind of cool if I had woken up back in the real world during my ‘dream’ time, but that would have been too weird. Also, mentally exhausting.

The floor was freezing, so I shuffled my feet into the slippers for the trip to the toilet and then the shower. I was having to get used to the pervading chill; April in Brockton Bay, for all that it was approaching summer, was in no way as warm as what I was used to.

The shower served to wake me up somewhat. Dressed and eating breakfast, I thought over what I needed to do for the day. Hopefully, Dragon would have passed on my message to the Director. And I really did need to speak to those in authority.

I just hoped that I could pull off what I needed to pull off. I was preparing to juggle flaming chainsaws while riding a unicycle on a tightrope over the Grand Canyon in a high wind. One wrong word, one misstep, and I was doomed. The world was doomed. What I knew, applied wrongly, could cause a metric shit-ton of damage. I needed them on side.

I finished breakfast, went back into the bathroom. Found the electric clippers by asking myself ‘where would I put them in this bathroom?’. Took my shirt off and gave myself a buzz-cut, level one, all over the scalp. Touched up my beard and moustache. Ran water over my head and splashed it on to my face, to get rid of loose hairs.

Then I put my shirt back on, and looked into the mirror. Looked myself in the eye.

I was delaying, and I knew it.

“Fuck it,” I said out loud. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

On the way out, I checked my laptop, just on impulse.

A single email. No sender address. The message consisted of two words.

Good luck.

I smiled involuntarily. If it wasn’t for Saint, I would probably have chosen to go exclusively through Dragon. But ... I had to do this. I had to take the gamble. Throw the dice, see how they landed.

Alea jacta est.

=//=//=​

I didn’t want to have to go through Saturday morning parking in the city centre, so I took the bus in.

It was still odd, travelling on a bus through a city I knew to be fictional, and yet it was real, all at the same time. I stared out the window, drank in the sights. Tried to figure out what I was seeing. Was that a building that had been described? Was this something that Leviathan would destroy in his rampage?

I had the bus lines about sorted by now, and so I was counting the stops. Two stops before mine, I was relaxing in the seat when I heard a maternal voice say, “Come on, Dinah.”

I looked around involuntarily. A man I didn’t know. A woman I didn’t know. A child I didn’t know, maybe twelve years old. She had paused at my row. Looking straight at me with a serious expression, an adult expression. Gave me a very slight nod. Moved on with her parents. Got off the bus.

I sat, stunned, as the bus pulled out into traffic again.

Was that Dinah Alcott?

Did she know me?

Or was it some random kid looking at some random stranger on the bus, and doing a random kid thing?

On balance, I hoped it was Dinah Alcott, and that she’d nodded because I was doing the right thing.

Because, to quote Clockblocker, the alternative sucked.

=//=//=​

The bus stop was directly in front of the PRT building. Of course it was. Tourist buses stopped here all the time. In fact, there was a fair number of tourists milling around right now. Some were entering the building, some were leaving.

I strode up to the doors; they opened to allow me entry.

It was cold out, so I wore a jacket and gloves. My freshly trimmed scalp felt the chill, but not as badly as it would had it been winter. I had visited America twice, each time during the winter, back in the real world. On one occasion, I had decided to get my hair cut down to about number two. When I had walked outside into below-freezing wind, it had felt like knives cutting into the top of my head. So I had my hood up as I walked into the lobby.

I felt rather than saw the four guards tense up slightly. I was large, heavy set, with sunglasses, a hooded jacket, and gloves. I stopped, pushed the hood back, unzipped the jacket, and tucked the shades into the top of my shirt. I wasn’t sure if they had ranged retinal-scanners in the here and now, but I wasn’t putting anything past Tinker tech. However, against such tech, sunglasses weren’t likely to do much either.

Strolling up to the reception desk, I leaned on it with my elbows, and smiled at the receptionist. “Hi,” I said. “I’m here to see the Director? Tell her I emailed her about it last night.”

She frowned; it probably was not in her usual experience to have someone walk in off the street and request an audience with the Director. I noticed that her left hand was resting casually on the edge of the desk, right next to an inconspicuously placed smiley-face sticker. Unless I missed my guess, her hand was within inches of a duress button. If I was a crazy, the guards would get the message loud and clear, and then I would be experiencing the joys of containment foam at first hand.

I strongly suspected that it would stick to me a lot harder than it stuck to Hope.

She didn’t press the button; instead, she tapped out something on her console, and murmured into her headset. It was a wide desk, and she kept her voice low; I thought I caught the words “- see the Director –“ but I could have been wrong.

A casual glance around told me that all four PRT guards were watching me, or at least their heads were more or less facing me. She’d tipped them a low-level alert, and done so without me noticing. Maybe a foot button. I was impressed.

Her eyebrows went up fractionally as she got her answer. I gave her my full attention and my best I’m-harmless smile. It must have broken the ice slightly, because she gave me a half-smile back.

“If you will take lift two, sir, someone will meet you,” she said.

“Uh ... which floor do I go to?” I asked. I knew, of course, that the Director’s office was on the top floor, but there was no sense in letting anyone know that I actually knew that.

She smiled, a little more widely; she knew something that I didn’t. “The lift will stop at the correct floor, sir,” she told me.

“Ah, I see,” I replied. I walked to the lift; as I approached, it opened, a complex interleaving of metal plates. Impressed, I blinked. As I stepped inside, one of the guards stepped in with me, making the motion seem utterly natural. He was one of the ones carrying containment foam.

The doors closed again. I was fascinated; I knew exactly why they did it that way – Tinker tech to impress the tourists – but it was still very, very cool. The elevator started upward.

“Hi,” I said.

The guard said nothing.

I shrugged slightly. What did I expect? He was there to make sure I didn’t cause trouble in the lift. Conversation was not in his list of duties.

I had to admit, though, having a conversation would have made me a little less apprehensive at the step I was about to take.

In any case, it would have been a short conversation; the lift reached its destination really, really quickly. I recalled the note about how it was supposed to negate inertia as well.

The doors interleaved open, and I stepped out. Three more PRT guards faced me, and the one who had escorted me in the lift stepped out behind me.

I very carefully kept my hands away from my body.

"Seriously, guys, I'm harmless," I said. "I just need to speak to Director Piggot."

"You're not from around here, are you, sir?" asked the guard in front of me. His voice echoed slightly inside his blank faceplate; it was actually how I had imagined Grue’s voice would sound. It was also creepy as hell.

It wasn't the creepiness that sent a chill down my back. It was the question. What do they know? How do they know? "Uh, not really," I managed.

"Thought so," the guard replied, with a note of satisfaction in his voice. "The Director's name is pronounced 'Pig-oh.'."

I blinked. Ah. Something that never came up in the story. Then again, why would it? They all know how it's pronounced. "Yeah, I've only ever seen it written down."

"Which makes us wonder what business you have with her," the guard, added, someone what more sharply.

Am I finished before I've started? "I emailed her last night. Stuff she needs to know about. I'm here to talk to her about it. She knows I'm coming."

There was a long silence, broken by a faint mumbling sound. I realised that he was speaking on the radio. He seemed to return his attention to me. "Are you armed?"

"I have keys and a pocketknife in my right-hand pants pocket," I said clearly. "Wallet in my left pants pocket. A phone in my jacket pocket. I have nothing else that can be used as a weapon. I can take off my jacket if you wish."

The guard in front of me nodded; I reached up, pushed the jacket back off my shoulders, and shrugged out of it. The guard behind me caught it, held it up, checked it over. Pulled out the phone, looked it over, put it back.

“Clean,” he reported. No – she. It was a woman behind that faceplate, although the armour would never have given it away. And it was official; the faceplates made any voice sound creepy.

“Take all items out of your pockets,” said the first guard. I obeyed, retrieving my wallet and my keys and pocket knife. Under their instruction, I held these items out to the sides while they scanned me down with something that looked a little more intricate than the usual run of the mill metal detector wands I had used in my line of work.

“You can put it back now,” said the first guard, once they had finished. I had been neither cuffed nor foamed, so I presumed I had passed the inspection. I replaced the items back in my pockets, and looked at them enquiringly. The female guard behind me handed me my jacket, and I slung it over my arm.

Then I looked back to see Armsmaster standing there. For a big man in a suit of light power armour, he could move really quietly; I hadn’t heard him approaching.

“I’ll take it from here,” he told them. Then he looked more closely at me. “I know you,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes,” I admitted. “We met last night.”

“Hmm,” he said, and his lips compressed very slightly. I got the impression that he didn’t like surprises; I was sure he was eyeing me suspiciously. “Is this about that?”

“Only tangentially,” I replied honestly. I tried not to smile; virtually every Worm fanfic used Armsmaster’s helmet-mounted lie detector as a plot device, and so it was basically impossible to forget. I was not going to lie to this man.

He dismissed the guards and escorted me down a corridor, past a somewhat startled-looking receptionist, and through a set of double doors. I was a pace to the side and behind him, which gave me the chance to admire the halberd that was clamped somehow on to the back of his armour. Retracted to six feet long, then folded over to fit on to his back, it was still an insanely awesome piece of technology. I wanted to hold it, just once. It was never going to happen, but I wanted to anyway.

Once a geek fanboy, always a geek fanboy.

I passed through the double doors, and into the office of Emily Piggot, Director of PRT East-North-East.

=//=//=​

She rose as I entered. It was a bit of a shock to me; every description of her had described her as ‘huge’, ‘bulky’, ‘obese’, ‘fatty’.

I was bigger than she was.

Okay, so I was fairly large myself; Sophia’s epithets directed at my weight had not been inaccurate. And she was a bit shorter than me, so the weight was more noticeable. But she wasn’t the whale that some fics had made her out to be.

“Good morning,” she greeted me. “You are the ‘Security’ who sent the email last night?”

I nodded, and swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “I am,” I managed.

“His name is Michael Allen,” supplied Armsmaster from behind me. “He was involved in the Shadow Stalker incident.”

She sank into her chair again. “I recall it,” she said. “You are a security guard at her school?”

“That’s true,” I agreed. “She objected to me catching her out badly in a bullying incident, and having her subjected to in-school suspension.”

Director Piggot frowned. “So she invaded your home and shot you at point-blank range with a crossbow bolt. I wish I could say that seems out of character for her.” She gestured at a chair. “Have a seat, Mr Allen.”

“Thank you, Director,” I said, taking a seat. Armsmaster did not sit; as far as I could tell, he was standing directly behind me. It was intimidating in the extreme; I was reasonably sure that this was deliberate.

“The report that Armsmaster submitted indicated that you were wearing a stab vest,” she went on. “Do you usually wear a stab vest in your own home?”

I smiled slightly. “Only when I’m expecting to need one. My job occasionally has me dealing with people likely to want revenge for imagined slights. Sophia Hess struck me as one of those. And when Principal Blackwell revealed to me that she was in fact Shadow Stalker ...” I spread my hands.

Piggot nodded. “You set about protecting yourself. Laudable. But why didn’t you just ask for protection?”

“Well, I couldn’t, not from the police,” I pointed out.

After a moment, she nodded, following my logic.

“And if I asked protection from the PRT or Protectorate, she would know. And simply hold off.” I leaned forward slightly. “Director Piggot, I’ve dealt with bullies before. They don’t give up, and they don’t go away. They just wait till you don’t have protection. So I let her think I didn’t have protection.”

“Hm,” she observed, tightening her lips slightly. “I see. Well, enough about that. I’m sure you didn’t come here to discuss Shadow Stalker.”

“No. I came here to discuss what I was going to tell you, and when.” My heart was beating faster now.

“About what?” she asked me.

I took a deep breath. “Everything.”

“Mr Allen,” she said tartly, “you had better start making sense. The email you sent me makes some very strong claims, and I would like some way to verify them before I act on them.”

I nodded. “Sure, but first, I need to be sure that nothing is going out of this room. No-one is listening in, no electronic eavesdropping. I’m serious about this. Not even Dragon. Especially not Dragon.”

“Why not?” It was Armsmaster’s voice, right behind me, low and deadly.

I ignored the chill that ran right down the back of my neck.

“Because it’s best for her – best for everyone – that she not hear this.” I twisted around to look at him. “Tell me I’m lying.”

He stared at me, impassive behind his visor, for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “You’re not lying.” He nodded to Piggot. “Do it.”

The Director lifted her phone, spoke a few words into it, in a tone too quiet for me to catch. Then she opened a clear plastic cover and pressed a red button on her desk.

The door locked with an audible click. Shudders dropped over the windows. A mild discordant hum filled the air.

“There,” she said. “We’re as sealed off as we’re going to get.”

“Good,” I said. “What would you like first; proof that I know what I’m talking about, or more information?”

They both spoke at the same time; Piggot said, “Proof,” while Armsmaster said, “Information.”

I waited, silent. They stared at each other. Wordless communication passed between them. He nodded slightly. “Proof, then.”

“Okay,” I said. “Armsmaster. Colin Wallis. Your father held two jobs, your mother travelled. They split up while you were still fairly young. You were born around nineteen eighty or so; you triggered when you were about fifteen, sixteen. How am I doing?”

“You could have found all that out with research,” he responded.

“Sure,” I said. And in a way, I had. By reading and re-reading the story. “You’ve been careful not to form attachments, not to get into relationships, because it would hamper your ability to be a hero. You’re proud of this. And yet, you’re starting to have feelings for Dragon. You may not be admitting this, even to yourself, but it’s true. And that’s good, because she has feelings for you. You two will be very good for one another. You need each other.”

Piggot was staring at Armsmaster.

“Cold reading,” he snapped. “Thinkers do it all the time.”

“But I’m not a Thinker,” I replied. “I’m not a cape at all. Tell me I’m lying.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” he said. “Why –“

“Because you have a lie detector built into your helmet,” I interrupted. “And every statement I’ve made since I walked into this room has been truthful, hasn’t it?”

He nodded, reluctantly. “It has,” he confirmed.

“Right,” I said. “Now for the fun ones. You’re also working on a combat prediction whatsit, algorithm, for your suit computer. Lets you know how an opponent will fight, predict their moves. Also, a nanobranch system for a second halberd. It’ll cut through anything, but heat and fire kills it.”

Silence, apart from the discordant hum.

“How ... do you know that?” he managed at last.

“Because I know stuff,” I told him patiently. “Director Piggot, I know less about you, but I know a bit.”

“Have a care, Mr Allen,” she warned.

I raised an eyebrow. “I know your leg muscles have been screwed, and your kidneys nonexistent, ever since Nilbog’s critters gnawed on you, back in two thousand and one. I also know that you dislike and distrust capes, ever since the ones you had at the time cut and run when the going got tough. And I know that you and a man called Thomas Calvert were the only two survivors of that particular charlie-foxtrot. Your callsign on that mission was ‘Lady’.” I paused. “And you’ve tested negative for the potential to trigger for powers.”

She stared at me, her steel-grey eyes glinting dangerously.

“I also know,” I said, “that despite everything that’s happened to you, you do the very best job you can as Director. And I have a potential solution for your health problems; it’ll just take a week or two to organise. Save you from eight hours of hemodialysis every night.”

Leaning back in the chair, I folded my hands over my stomach, trying to appear at ease. “So, do I pass?”

Once more, that wordless communication passed between the Director and the local head of the Protectorate. After a few moments, Piggot nodded. “You pass. For now.”

I smiled without humour. “I guess it’s the best I’ll get for the moment.” I turned to Armsmaster. “Okay, just so you know? That nanobranch setup and the combat prediction program? You’re thinking of trying it out on an Endbringer. Leviathan’s favourite for that, for obvious reasons. I’ve already told you that he’s due to hit here on May the fifteenth. But I’ll tell you here and now ... no. It won’t work. It’ll look like it’s working, it’ll feel like it’s working ... but Leviathan cheats. Physics only works on him if and when he chooses to let it. And he’ll sucker you all the way in, and then he’ll rip your arm off and leave you to bleed to death.”

I paused for a moment, to let him absorb that.

At long last, he nodded. “So noted,” he growled. “Continue.”

“Okay, something closer to the heart,” I said. “Saint.”

I saw him stiffen very slightly in reaction. “What about him?”

“His real name is Geoff Pellick,” I said, and spelled it. “Two close associates that I know of; Margaret, last name not known. He’s in a personal relationship with her, calls her Mags. They may be married; I do not know. She’s got dark skin, full lips. Was in law enforcement in Canada as of two thousand five, two thousand six.”

I paused. “The other associate is Mikhail Dobrynja, a Russian national.” I paused to spell that name, too. “Pellick calls him Mischa. Pellick held a dive licence and maybe a salvage licence as of ought five, ought six; he dived on the remains of Newfoundland. Dobrynja piloted the dive boat, so he’s probably licensed for that too.”

“Anything else?” Armsmaster sounded positively eager, gleeful, at the information I was giving him.

“Just three things. Saint has a facial tattoo; it’s in the shape of a cross, over his eyes, with circuitry, and little dots of light moving along the circuit lines. Another thing is a maybe. I do not know if it’s true or not. He may or may not live, or own property, on Yonge Street in Toronto.”

“And the third thing?” he asked.

I took a deep breath. “The reason I asked you to cut Dragon out of the loop. He’s hacked into her systems, hard. Any move she makes, anything she sees or hears, he knows about. He’s got hacks in place that let him do stuff that she just can’t see. And he’s got a kill-switch he can pull at any time. Shut her down for good. Possibly kill her. Personally.”

There was more silence. “Fuck,” he grated. He knew as well as I did, what I meant by that. Dragon could have no part in an effort to hunt down Saint. She must not even be allowed to know that it was happening.

Piggot was more pragmatic. “All of her systems?” she asked. “Such as the Birdcage?”

I nodded. “He can tap into any of her monitors. Including in the Birdcage. He desperately wants to get Teacher out of there, so he can get some more brain-boosting. Teacher wants to get out of there, so he can carry out his own plans. But Saint can’t let anyone out of the Birdcage, because it requires more than just Dragon deciding to let someone out. And simply shutting down the system would cut off their air and life support.”

She nodded, giving me an appraising look. “Well, it’s bad,” she said. “But not irreparable.”

“Oh, it’s all fixable,” I agreed. “And I want to help you fix it. Which is why I’m here. There are things happening behind the scenes. I know about them. And some of it I need to tell you about now, and some I need to tell you about later.”

“Why not all right now?” asked Armsmaster.

“Because the wrong information being acted on at the wrong time by the wrong people, even with the best of intentions, could upset the whole house of cards,” I said flatly. “It would be worse than if I held back the information altogether.”

“So how did you come about all this information?” asked the Director curiously. “And do you have more that you’re willing to share?”

I had to chuckle. “Yes, I’ve got more to share. And yes, I could tell you where I got it from. But seriously, you would not believe me.”

Piggot looked at Armsmaster. He nodded. “He believes that implicitly.”

“You could try us,” she said, a hint of steel in her voice. “I’ve been led to believe some rather unbelievable facts, in my time.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. It sounds silly, even in my head. And I’d rather keep my credibility. But as for sharing information; I do have two more things. Something that’s happening in this very building, and a crime that’s going to happen in five days’ time. A crime that I would really, really rather you stopped.”

“What’s happening in this building?” asked the Director, at almost exactly the same time as Armsmaster said, “A crime?”

Once more, the silent communication. Or perhaps, I realised, it was a simple battle of wills. In any case, the Director won once more. Armsmaster nodded slightly. Piggot gestured for me to go on.

I took a deep breath. “You have as many as three spies in this building, or you will by the time Leviathan strikes. International mercenaries, planted here by Coil. You might want to ask Dragon to check with facial recognition; she would have picked this up anyway, but this way just speeds up the process.”

Director Piggot looked grim. “I don’t like that. I don’t like that, at all.”

“Can you give us anything more on Coil?” asked Armsmaster.

“When the time comes,” I said. “For now, I’m just giving you a heads-up on what he’s doing, specifically to do with you. I’ll tell you more about him, enough to take him down for good, when the time is right.”

“Why not right now?” asked Piggot directly.

“Because it’s the wrong time, and it would do more harm than good,” I told her flatly.

She glanced at Armsmaster; he nodded fractionally.

“We could hold you,” she suggested. “Until you decide the time is right.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got a balancing act going on here. I’ve got things to do, to make sure other things happen. If you detain me, I drop everything.” A deep breath. “And besides, Dragon did ask you to let me go free, after.”

“By your own admission, Dragon is compromised,” Armsmaster stated.

“No,” I told him. “She’s not. She’s just being watched, and is in serious danger from Pellick. He’s not in communication with her, and he couldn’t coerce her if he tried. He can’t make her break the law. Her moral code is too strong. And just because he sees and hears everything that goes through her systems, doesn’t mean he understands it.”

There was a silence, filled by the discordant hum.

“You mentioned a crime,” Armsmaster said at last.

I nodded. “This is also due to Coil. It’s set to happen around about midday on Thursday the fourteenth of April. Stop it, and you put a fatal crimp in his plans ...”

=//=//=​

Director Piggot and Armsmaster faced one another in the office. The door was locked, the windows shuttered, the discordant hum once more active.

“We could have held him.” Armsmaster.

“We could have,” agreed the Director. “But my read of the situation is that he's working for someone else, whether he knows it or not. They're feeding him information, and he's choosing to pass it on to us.” A searching glance. “Are you sure he wasn’t lying to you?”

Armsmaster shrugged. “The scanner indicated that he does not possess an active corona pollentia. Either he’s taught himself to lie with his whole body, or he was being absolutely honest with us all the way. Holding things back, not telling us the entire truth on occasion, but he never lied.”

Piggot shook her head. “I don’t like it. I have no idea who's behind him, or what their ultimate aims are. I don't trust random benevolence, in any form." She paused. "But, on the other hand, someone with that sort of information at their fingertips, we don't want to get on their bad side, either. They could do a lot of damage to us. So we don't act against him. Not yet, anyway."

“Course of action?”

“Observe. Discreetly. But not even Dragon finds out about what he’s told us.”

“Not until we’ve taken down Saint.” He glanced at her. “I’m presuming we’re doing that?”

She nodded. “You’re doing that. Start following up on that information he gave us. See what you can dig up.”

His lips tightened. “I’m used to working with Dragon on something like this.”

She gave him an answering smile, one without any humour to it. “Welcome to working outside your comfort zone.”

=//=//=​

I stepped out of the lift into the lobby of the PRT building, wearing my jacket. Director Piggot and Armsmaster had been cordial on my leaving, and had not hindered me in any way, but I had zero doubt that they would be watching me as closely as they could. The scan they had asked me to sit still for hadn't even tickled; I had an idea what that was for, and was fairly certain it would turn out negative.

Technically speaking, they could not legally hold me; I had committed no crime, and indeed had gone to them with the information. But legal technicalities bore little relation to the truth of the matter; Tagg, for instance, would have been a sight less cooperative. I suspected that I had only gotten out of there for two reasons; one, because Dragon had asked it of them, and two, on the strength of my promise that I would give them more information when and if it became necessary to do so.

And I would. I knew I would. I just had to make sure I gave them the right information at the right time.

I hoped I would be able to figure out when that time was.

I was still riding the unicycle on the tightrope over the Grand Canyon, but I wasn’t juggling the chainsaws any more, and the wind had died down. Things were a little easier; I had a touch of breathing space.

Which meant that I could do the next thing on my agenda.

I pulled out my phone, and paged through till I found the right number. Pressed the green button.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s me. Look, I know you said coffee, but I have an invitation to a little bit of a social gathering. Are you interested?”

As I spoke, I eyed the gift shop. Once I was done with the call, I decided, I would pick myself up a little something.

Superhero memorabilia? Hell yes.


End of Part Four

 

Security!

Chapter Five: Fourth Interaction


I attracted some odd looks on the bus, but I didn’t care. The brightly coloured bags, covered with the symbols and logos of the most prominent capes in the city, looked rather like show bags from what I was increasingly thinking of as “back home”.

I had quite unashamedly bought one of every action figure I could get my hands on. Even the one for Shadow Stalker, which I had found, rather appropriately, lurking at the back of the shelf. She had been a Ward for about six months, after all. And I had one each of Aegis and Gallant, who were due to die when Leviathan hit the city.

I didn’t know how to think about that.

Two teenagers, decent kids, that I knew were doomed in the upcoming fight; should I feel sorry? Resigned? Try to warn them in some way?

Aegis was, as far as I could tell, a dedicated leader, and good at it. Gallant’s death would gut both Victoria Dallon and Missy Biron. Which would in turn lead to Vicky’s harsher attitude in dealing with Amy, and to Missy’s fatalist attitude ...

... wait.

Was all this even going to happen any more?

What if my interference caused Leviathan to not hit the city?

Was that even possible?

I considered that. The Simurgh may well communicate with Leviathan, tell him that they’re ready for him. That was if the Simurgh was even working with the other two at this point in time. If they were still under Eidolon’s orders, then it might not matter.

And even if it did, Leviathan may well come out with the Endbringer version of “Challenge accepted!” and come along anyway. I recalled how the defence of New Delhi had gone against Behemoth, even with the massive preparation that had taken place there. Granted, the Protectorate had been fragmented by then, due to the Eidolon clone's revelations during the Echidna incident. But still, it had not been a good showing.

Alternatively, I considered, Leviathan may choose to come early, he may come late, or he may not come at all. He might divert to New York or Boston. He might go somewhere else altogether.

In which case I would have to explain to Director Piggot about the Simurgh’s abilities. That would be an interesting conversation.

By this time, of course, all future events would be skewed so far out of line that there would be no predicting them. I just wanted to control them up to the fourteenth, and set events in motion thereafter.

My usefulness from then on would be strictly to do with knowledge of people, and of how to take out Scion. Also, the origin of the Endbringers. Which was, to be honest, a bit of a hot potato. I sure as hell wasn’t going to stroll up to Eidolon and break it to him over a cup of coffee. He might take it badly. I didn’t want to be there when he took it badly. Demonstrably, being in a different dimension wouldn’t make me safe from Eidolon.

One of my bags shifted, and I caught it before it spilled. However, the folded plastic halberd sticking out the top was entirely visible to all and sundry. The woman sitting next to me eyed the toy with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s fun being an uncle,” I told her, totally truthfully – I had two nieces and a nephew back on my Earth – but with no bearing on the current situation.

“Ah,” she said, with a smile. “Stocking up for birthdays?”

I nodded. “Something like that.”

“What else do you have?” she asked, poking at the bag. “That’s not all action figures.”

“No,” I agreed. “There’s a board game and a roleplaying game too. I’m interested in seeing how that goes.”

“It’s been years since I played a board game,” she commented. “I kind of got out of the habit.”

I nodded. “That happens. I try to play games as much as possible.” A grin. “I have to grow old. I don’t have to grow up.”

She sighed. “Well, I have a two year old, so growing up is something I haven’t really had the option not to do.”

We chatted all the way to my stop; I enjoyed it. It was a pleasant distraction from the thoughts that were running around and around in my head.

=///=​

By the time I got back to my flat, I was starting to regret having purchased all the action figures that I had. It reminded me of times attending conventions, when I had gotten on the train with bags bulging with merchandise. Taken all together, such things can get heavy.

I had actually gotten some great board games and card games out of those events. And I still had Sting hanging on the wall. Back home, that is. Here, not so much. This version of me apparently didn’t do pop culture expos, or rather, there probably weren’t any to attend.

Which was a real pity. Capes could attend, cosplaying as themselves. Or show up to do celebrity appearances.

I would sure as hell line up to get an autograph from Miss Militia. And a photo.

These pleasant thoughts carried me through getting back into the flat, and sorting out my merchandise. The action figures were cool; the halberd was cooler. Although I nearly hit the ceiling fan when I tried to spin it like a quarterstaff.

Deciding that it would be a bad idea to break my stuff on the same day I bought it, I reluctantly put the halberd down – it wasn’t as cool as holding the real thing would have been, but it was still very cool – and looked into the board game.

It was interesting; the board was a stylised map of Brockton Bay, with various landmarks shown. From what I could understand of the rules, each player got to play a Brockton Bay cape. Nearly all the Wards and Protectorate capes were represented, although the game must have been more than six months old, as Shadow Stalker wasn’t there, and Triumph was shown as being in the Wards.

In fact, as I found to my amusement as I flicked through the Event cards, one such event was “Encounter with a Vigilante”, showing an unmistakeable image of Shadow Stalker, looming menacingly on a rooftop.

Each player cape was represented by a card bearing an action photo, a fairly corny quote, and basic stats. The power ratings were heavily featured, with explanations underneath.

It looked like it could be an interesting game ... if I could find anyone to play it with me.

Next, I looked over the roleplaying game. It bore the strikingly original title of Capes!, and featured someone who looked vaguely like Alexandria punching someone who looked vaguely like Jack Slash through a brick wall.

However, after a bit of a read through the rules, I was less than impressed. This was a quickie game; the players rolled the dice for their power types and ratings, then consulted random charts for the actual power effect. Unfortunately, there appeared to have been a bit of author bias, and all power sets that mimicked a prominent real-world cape were considerably more effective than a randomly-rolled cape. I got the strong impression that they had written up the existing powersets, then added in other random powers to add a little variety.

In addition, the system itself was clunky, the descriptions were not altogether clear, and some of the rules had loopholes that Behemoth could stroll through without touching the sides. But, I supposed, in a world starved for light-hearted entertainment, this would work as well as anything.

=///=​

Once I tired of playing with the toys, I sat down at the laptop. I should, I supposed, put some stuff down, just in case I got badly hurt, or even killed, over the next few days. First, I turned off the internet connection. Then I opened a page and started writing.

Taylor Hebert needs to become Skitter and go out on Sunday night to fight Lung, otherwise the Undersiders may not rob the bank on Thursday.

I read the sentence through and shook my head. I knew why. I had context. Anyone else reading it would just start asking “why?”

That was my biggest problem with trying to leave a contingency plan. I didn’t have the backup of people who would just follow my instructions without second-guessing them. No-one else in the world had the grasp of context that I did.

I deleted the sentence.

I sighed, tried again.

Amy Dallon, aka Panacea, must meet with Mrs Jessica Yamada in order to deal with her issues. These issues involve the following:

1) a pseudo-incestuous attraction toward her foster sister Victoria
2) a toxic home life involving an unrequited attraction toward Victoria, a borderline-abusive foster mother who neither likes nor trusts her, and a father who isn’t there even when he’s there.
3) She needs to deal with her problem with working with brains. Suggested compromise: to bring brain damage sufferers back up to status quo. If she does not deal with this, she will suffer, and so will Vicky.
4) She’s been healing people for three years, more or less forced to do so by emotional blackmail. She needs to learn that she can step back, take a break.
5) She needs to move out of home. Seriously.
6) She needs to come to terms with who her father is (Marquis). She also needs to understand that she is NOT becoming a villain. Becoming burned out is not the same as choosing to be a bad person.
7) She needs emotional support, and a moral compass. Seriously.

I read through what I had written, then shuddered.

Falling into the wrong hands, this could be used to devastating effect.

I needed to be able to save documents like this, without just leaving them for anyone to read.

Five minutes of online research later, I had the answer. I hadn't even known that it was possible to encrypt .zip-files. Now I did.

I saved it to a text file, then encrypted it, with a password that no-one on this Earth would easily guess; even Tattletale would be hard put to figure out the name of the story and the author of same.

In the event of my death, how the hell was I supposed to get good information to those who would actually make use of it properly? Who were those people, anyway? What information would be made good use of, and what would be misused? Seriously, this was Worm. Bad life decisions were sort of a given, here.

Actually typing it up and then saving it in encrypted files was a start, I figured. It was the best I could do.

I sighed again, and deleted the page I had been writing on. The last thing I needed was someone going through my laptop and hitting ‘undo delete’, and reading the juicy stuff.

Inserting a memory stick, I copied across the Panacea file, then wiped it from the computer. I pulled the stick out and put it to one side.

Turning on the internet connection, I checked my emails.

There was one from Dragon; or at least, one without a sender name.

It read, All good?

I typed up a quick reply. All good. Thanks.

The email was sent, disappearing into the electronic ether. Then, as was my habit, I started surfing the net, checking out what tabs I had open.

There was a tab for Parahumans Online. Of course I clicked it.

I even had an account; the username was different, but not so very much so. It made me pause, and I dug out my wallet. Had a good look at my driver’s licence. When I saw what ‘my’ middle name was, I laughed out loud. It made sense; it made a lot of sense. But I still found it hilarious.

I just wished there was someone I could share the joke with.

=///=​

Reading the PHO boards was ... interesting. I checked some of ‘my’ previous postings, and found them to be more or less what I would write; good spelling, good grammar, bad puns.

Then I trawled the message boards for a while. A post from “GstringGirl” jogged my memory, and I sent her a friend request. Sveta was a nice girl, if you ignored the murder tentacles; I figured she could do with an online pal who just wanted to chat.

I encountered XxVoid_CowboyxX espousing a half-baked opinion on something, so I replied, pretending to agree with him, but in the process puncturing his theory neatly. I wondered how he would respond.

Then I had a look at the profile pages of the hero and villain capes of Brockton Bay and beyond. Some of them were extremely interesting, while others were startlingly incomplete or even inaccurate; I amused myself for a while, opening a text file and typing up much more complete descriptions, and saving them on my computer. When and if the time came, I could just post them up, and watch the jaws drop.

Then I reconsidered, found another memory stick, .zip-filed the profiles and saved the file on to there. The original file, I deleted. If need be, I could pass that on to the PRT at some point.

After a little more thought, I found an envelope, scribbled “In the event of my death, please give this to the PRT” on it, put the memory stick in it, and shoved it in a drawer.

I glanced up at the clock. It was nearly time to get ready.

=///=​

I had a slightly better idea of how the streets of Brockton Bay ran this time, so I wasn't more than ten minutes late to pick up Mrs Knott. However, I had planned for this, and given myself fifteen minutes of leeway. I expected to be waiting for a little while when I pulled up outside her house, but the front door opened before I even opened her front gate.

“Hi,” I said. “You look very nice, Mrs Knott.” And she did; she had on a sky-blue dress with a matching hairband, setting off her blonde hair. She still looked somewhat mannish, but her smile went a long way toward dispelling that impression.

“You know, you can call me Gladys,” she told me, mock-severely, with a nod to acknowledge the compliment.

“Sure,” I agreed. “But only if you call me Mike.”

She smiled again. “I see you cut your hair, Mike,” she observed. “It makes you look a little different.”

I shrugged. “I like to keep it trimmed down. Makes me look more like a security guard.”

Her expression was amused as she climbed into the passenger seat of my pickup. “It certainly does that.”

I rounded the vehicle and climbed into my side. “It’s an image thing. I started growing the beard about nine years ago, after I’d been doing security for a year. Another guard suggested it, to make me look more mature. It seems to work.”

She nodded. “Image is important, especially for first impressions.”

“Particularly for teachers and security guards,” I agreed blandly, hitting the indicatior and pulling on to the road.

“I didn’t know what you were going to be arriving in,” she observed, looking around at the slightly-worn interior of the pickup. “This would not have been my first choice.”

I grinned slightly. “It was my first car. I’ve had it since nineteen ninety.” I nearly added that it was twenty-four years old, then amended it to, “Twenty-one this year.”

“Why a pickup?” she asked. “Why not a car?”

I shrugged. “Much more utility if you’re moving things around town. It makes moving house a cinch. I’ve done that a few times, for friends as well as myself.”

“I see,” she observed. “Very useful.”

“Also,” I added, “far less likely to be stolen.”

“Improved alarm system?”

I shook my head. “No street cred.”

She laughed at that, but nodded at the same time. “I see your point. I do see your point.”

=///=​

I took a slightly roundabout route to get to Danny’s house. First, we stopped at a convenience store, where I purchased a packet of frozen sausages, two large bottles of soda, and a couple of large packets of chips.

“A good guest brings as much as he’s likely to eat, or perhaps a little more,” I explained, as we wedged my purchases in between us on the bench seat. The soda went down into the passenger footwell.

“A good philosophy,” she agreed. “Perhaps you should have let me pay for some of that.”

“Nah,” I said. “You’re my plus one. Tonight’s on me.”

I turned the vehicle around and got on to one of the main crosstown streets.

“Doesn’t Taylor live out that way?” she asked, pointing off to the side.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But I’m crap at finding my way around this city, so I’ve decided on a three-step plan. Step one: drive east until we hit Lord Street. Step two, drive along Lord Street until we reach the cross-street leading to her house. Step three, drive down that street until we reach the house.”

She nodded consideringly. “That’s a good plan. I’m presuming you weren’t a cab driver in Brockton Bay, then.”

I shook my head. “Nah. Some little town you’ve probably never heard of.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” I confirmed, and told her the name. Predictably, she didn’t know it. Predictably, because there was no town of that name in the state that I claimed it was in. This was because the town was actually in another country, and was where I came from, back home.

=///=​

I hated lying to Gladys Knott, but I didn’t want to get more people wondering about me than was really necessary. I really hated lying to her, because I liked her and respected her quite a lot; while she had been toeing the line at Winslow, as soon as I had offered her the chance to get something done, she had not flinched and she had not stepped back on her word.

So, I had decided, when Danny had called me about the little get-together, I figured that she deserved a piece of it too, given the role she had played in what had gone down.

=///=
​

We pulled up outside the house; I had been rolling down the street, reading numbers off of mailboxes, and this was the right one. Not all of my cabbie tricks were useless here in Brockton Bay.

I noted that the house was on a corner; this made a certain amount of sense, especially with the mention of a chain-link gate at the side of the house.

Gladys got out, and I retrieved the soda bottles from the foot-well; she took the chips and sausages. I made sure to lock the vehicle; I didn’t expect someone to try to steal it, but if they did, I wanted them to work for it.

Sunset was still a little time away, but it was definitely getting into late afternoon as we strolled up the front walk to the house. I nudged Gladys as she was about to walk up the steps to the door, and indicated the bottom step. “I wouldn’t step on that,” I advised her. “It looks a bit rotten.”

She looked where I was pointing, and nodded, stepping over that step. I let her press the doorbell.

Taylor opened the door, wearing a pretty dress, and looking quite nice.

“Hi, Mr Allen!” she greeted me cheerfully, then blinked as she recognised my date. “Mrs Knott?”

“You can call me Gladys for tonight, Taylor,” the teacher replied with a smile. “Michael invited me; I hope that’s all right?”

Taylor nodded. “Sure. You were there too.” She stepped back. “Come on through. Dad’s wrestling with the barbecue.”

We followed her through the front hall to the kitchen, where we paused to unload the perishables into the fridge, and then on out to the back yard.

There was a folding table there next to the barbecue, into which Danny was peering, engrossed in the mysteries thereof. He looked up as we emerged from the back door.

“Mike!” he greeted me, and came over to shake my hand.

“Danny, thanks for inviting me,” I replied. “You know Gladys Knott?”

“I do,” he agreed. “Gladys, thanks for backing Mike up with the thing at the school.”

Mrs Knott flushed slightly from the praise. “If I had favourite students, Taylor would be one of them. So I couldn’t do anything less, once I saw what was going on.”

He nodded. “Unlike some others I could name,” he said, then brightened. “But let’s not talk about that. I have a barbecue that doesn’t want to light. Anyone here know how to get that done?”

The three of us conferred seriously over the problem while Taylor brought out chairs and the sun slowly sank into the west. We managed to work it out in the end, just before some more of the guests arrived.

Flames were beginning to leap up through the barbecue grill as two more people arrived, this time coming in through the side gate.

Kurt was a big man, one of the dock workers that Danny worked with. He was, Danny explained, the foreman of his crew. His wife Lacey was more petite, but they both had a hard-bitten, no-nonsense air about them.

“Heard what you did for young Taylor,” Kurt said to me, seizing my hand in a grip like a steel vice; I squeezed back, hoping to give as good as I got.

“Yeah, well, I saw something that needed doing, so I did it,” I replied, trying not to wince at the power of his handshake.

Lacey shook my hand after her husband had finished mangling it; her grip was less strong, but in no way weak. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “You did a good thing.”

Off to the side, Taylor was speaking with her teacher. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Taylor was nodding and smiling, and Mrs Knott seemed to be pleased as well. She put her hand on Taylor’s shoulder and squeezed, and Taylor seemed to levitate three inches off the ground from sheer happiness.

I told Danny about the sausages, and he nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “Get them out to defrost while I get the steaks on. There’s beer in the fridge as well; feel free to grab one.”

I noted that Kurt already had one, but Lacey seemed to be contenting herself with a cup of soda.

“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t drink, and anyway, I’m driving. But I’ll have some of the soda. Brought some of that too.”

“Hah,” he grinned, the flames of the barbecue reflecting off of his glasses. “I’m gonna have to invite you over more often.”

“That,” I agreed over my shoulder, “is the general idea.”

I brought the steaks out, and a beer to Danny; he hadn’t asked for one, but nor did he have one, and it seemed to be a reasonable idea. Nor did he object; he opened it immediately, and I saw him taking occasional swigs between turning the steaks over.

The sky was beginning to purple over, and a few more people had arrived, by the time the party got into full swing; that is, the first steaks started coming off of the barbecue. I got mine, and I found a seat at the folding table. Gladys was chatting with Lacey, Kurt and Danny were in the middle of a group of dock-workers, and I found myself temporarily alone.

That is, until, Taylor sat down opposite me.

“Hey, Taylor,” I greeted her.

“Hey, Mike,” she replied. “It’s okay to call you Mike, right?”

I nodded. “My friends get to call me Mike,” I confirmed. I held out my fist; she bumped it, and grinned.

“So, what’s on your mind?” I asked.

She concentrated on her steak. “I never said that anything was on my mind.”

“Yeah, right,” I commented quietly. “You’re a smart kid. You’re observant, and you’re always thinking about something. But I’m not all that bad at my job either, and I get the impression that you came over to talk to me about something.”

She glanced up at me. “Can I talk to you about something? And you don’t tell Dad about it?”

I raised an eyebrow. “If not telling him means you get hurt, then yes, I’ll tell him. But other than that … sure.”

She smiled widely at that. “Thanks. I –“

“Company,” I interrupted, as Gladys came over toward the table. Taylor shut up, and by the time the teacher came into hearing, I was explaining the duties of a security guard. “Oh, hey, Gladys,” I said, as she came up alongside me, “Taylor wanted to know what else a security guard gets to do, apart from catch bullies.”

Mrs Knott directed a smile at Taylor. “Thinking about a future career, Taylor?” she asked.

Taylor looked startled; I rubbed my chin and nodded thoughtfully. “You know, you could do worse,” I said. “I think you’d make a great security guard.”

“That’s nice,” responded Gladys. “Michael, Danny wanted to introduce you around to the boys. He seems to think it’s a big deal.”

I heaved myself to my feet, leaving my plate on the table. With Gladys on my arm, I approached the group of dock-workers. Danny introduced them to me; I repeated the names back to try to remember them, but I knew that I’d forget most by the time the night was done.

Each man shook my hand solemnly, and I realised that I was being introduced to them specifically by the union rep. I was being accepted into the inner circle, such as it was. I had done Danny Hebert a good turn; this would not be forgotten.

Fortunately, they weren’t as careless with their grips as Kurt had been with his; my hand was aching by the time I finished shaking hands with the group of burly dock-workers, but it felt reasonably intact.

“It’s good to meet you guys,” I said. “It really is. I’m new to the city, and I’m always happy to meet new friends.”

This pleased them; we chatted for a short while, then I pleaded the necessity to get back to my steak, which Taylor had been guarding for me.

Not only had she been guarding it, but she had also added a couple of the grilled sausages. I grinned and added a dollop of ketchup from the squeeze bottle on the table. “Good thinking,” I said. “Your dad does a mean barbecue.”

“He doesn’t get that many chances,” she observed. “But since yesterday, he’s been the happiest I’ve seen him in a while. Thanks for that, by the way.”

I glanced across at where Danny was chatting with Gladys, then back to the teenager across from me. “Well, you’re looking pretty chipper yourself, kid.” I indicated the dress she was wearing. “Bright colours, even. A bit of a difference from yesterday. It brings out your eyes.”

She coloured slightly. “Thanks. I feel brighter. Yeah, happier, I guess.” She sat up and looked me directly in the eye. “Can we talk about what we were talking about before, or are you not really interested?”

I stood up. “Sure, I’m interested. Let’s talk.”

We strolled over to the back stairs; she sat on the steps, while I leaned on the railing.

“What if I …” She hesitated. “Went through a life changing experience. If I felt that there was something I could do to make the world a better place, but I wasn’t sure if what I was planning on doing was the right thing. What would you suggest?”

“Why aren’t you sure?” I asked.

“Well, before yesterday,” she confessed, “I had reasons for going ahead and doing it. But what you did yesterday, some of those reasons aren’t so strong any more.”

I frowned. “You’re saying that me helping you made you not want to do this thing?”

“No,” she said. “I’m saying that you showing me that not everyone in the world apart from me and Dad is a dick, is what made me think that maybe I should slow down a bit, think it through.”

“Huh,” I said. “So what you’re talking about, it’s potentially dangerous?”

“Hypothetically dangerous, yes,” she admitted.

“So before, you were going to do it because …”

“Because I wanted to escape from the shitty life I had at school, and dangerous or not, I’d be making a difference, and just that alone would be a thousand percent better,” she told me in a rush.

“Ah,” I said. “Light dawns. What I did yesterday made the shitty life at school a lot less shitty. Thus, less to escape from. Also, the impending transfer.”

She nodded. “Just knowing that there’s someone on my side.” Her voice was low. “Before, there was no-one who would back me up, take my side, listen to me.”

I nodded. “I’ve been there before, believe me.” I took a deep breath. “But you know something? I think … having been bullied like that has made me a better security guard. I’m more aware of how it’s like from the downside. What it’s like being shat on from a great height, excuse my French.”

She grinned abruptly. “Oh, I know that feeling,” she said fervently.

“So yeah,” I went on. “That’s why I said you’d make a great guard. You know about bullies, but you aren’t one yourself. Actually …” I said musingly.

“Actually?” she asked.

“It just struck me. I reckon the best capes would be the ones who were bullied. Not the ones who’ve always had it good. The ones who know that there’s always someone else needing help.” I nodded down at Taylor. “You’d make a great superhero. Swooping across the skyline in your red and blue costume, your cape flapping behind you …” With one hand, I mimed the course a drunken duck may have taken.

She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

Danny, passing through on his way inside to get more chips, nodded at the two of us. “You all good?” he asked. “Another drink?”

“I’m good,” I said. “Need a hand?”

“No, thanks,” he demurred. “You’re the guest, you stay put.”

Taylor was still chuckling as he went inside. “You’d make a great cape,” she told me. “You saved me, yesterday.”

“Sorry,” I told her. “I can’t do it. It’s impossible”

She fell into the trap. “Why not?” she asked.

I grinned. “Because the name ‘Chubster’ is already taken.” I patted my not inconsiderable stomach. Taylor broke up all over again.

On his way out with the chips, Danny stopped to observe his daughter’s mirth. He shook his head. “Whatever jokes you’re telling her,” he said to me, “keep it up. I haven’t seen her laugh like that in forever.”

He walked away; Taylor gradually regained her breath. “I don’t … believe it,” she gasped. “There’s actually … a cape … called Chubster?”

I nodded. “Found him yesterday on Parahumans Online.” I shook my head. “The names some people take on …”

“You read that site too?” she asked.

“It’s interesting,” I confirmed with another nod. “Glimpses into a whole different world. I chat to some of them. They have interesting perspectives.” I looked down at her. “But under it all, they’re just people like you and me. And I think some people forget that from time to time.”

“Yeah …” she said quietly.

“So, to get back to your question,” I said. “Hypothetically, how long would you have been preparing for this thing you’re talking about doing?”

“Months,” she responded.

“And is there anything else you have to do in order to be ready?”

She paused. “Nothing major,” she admitted.

I shrugged. “So do it. Get up on the horse. Prove to the world that you’re ready to do something good, to change things. Putting things off only breeds excuses not to go through with them.”

“You think so?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. First day at anything, you’re never going to be perfect. But if you’re good enough, that’ll do. You can learn to be perfect, later. But if you hold off until you’re perfect … then you could be holding off a long, long time.”

Taylor nodded slowly, a determined look creeping over her face. “I’ll do it,” she decided firmly. “I will.”

“Good for you.” I offered her my fist to bump. She bumped it, looking pleased. “So what are you doing? Some sort of volunteer work?”

“… sort of.” Her voice was guarded.

I raised an eyebrow. “Considering that it’s something that your Dad isn’t aware that you’re doing, it must be pretty radical. Running away to join the PRT or something?” I put a joking tone in my voice.

“Hah, yeah, as if,” she retorted, rolling her eyes. Then she looked searchingly at me. “You can keep it a secret, right?” she asked anxiously.

I nodded reassuringly. “You ask me to, I keep it,” I told her. “Simple as that.”

Getting up, she strolled toward one of the coolers that some of the dock-workers had brought. Opening it, she looked inside, then called out to her father.

“I’m just going to get some more ice, okay, Dad? This one’s almost melted.”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” he replied. “Take Mike. He can do the heavy lifting.”

“Gee, thanks,” I replied from my post by the steps, loudly enough, and with enough of a wry tone, to raise a laugh.

Taylor trotted up the steps, and I followed her. We went through into the kitchen, and then she opened the one door that had been closed before. It was, of course, the basement door.

The basement steps, I realised, ran downward under the stairs that led up to the second floor. Reading the story, I had wondered how the house fit together. Standing in it, I understood much better now.

She flicked a switch beside the door, causing bare bulbs to light up, then descended the stairs. I clumped down after her.

There was a small freezer down here, as well as a washing machine and an ancient-looking dryer. It made sense for these to be in the basement, as there was little room in the rest of the house for them; they simply had not been mentioned in the story because they did not feature in the narrative.

While I went to the freezer and opened it, hefting out two large bags of ice, she went to a panel in the wall. It was, I knew, the old coal chute.

She had it down to a fine art; by the time I had two bags out and the freezer closed again, she had the panel off and was lifting out a gym bag. As I watched, she unzipped the bag and lifted out the costume.

“Wow,” I said, stepping closer. I reached out to feel the texture. This is cooler, I told myself, than Armsmaster’s halberd. “What’s this?”

“My costume,” she told me. “I’m a cape. I’ve got powers.”

“Holy shit, that’s so cool,” I responded. “What’s it made of?”

“Black widow dragline silk,” she said, with a touch of pride. She held up the mask for my inspection; I made appreciative noises. And I was impressed, I really was. Reading the description was one thing; seeing the real thing was quite another.

She tucked it back away into its hiding place as I went back to grab the ice. “How did you score a costume made of spider silk?” I asked.

“I made it,” she informed me proudly. She was getting a real kick out of impressing me, I could tell.

“Made it?” I repeated. “What, really?”

She nodded, grinning widely. “Guess what my powers are.”

“I’m gonna have to think about this one,” I pointed out, holding up the ice. “Let’s get this upstairs first.”

She nodded. “Good idea.”

I went up the stairs in front of her, so that she could turn out the light and close the door. Between us, we got the ice bags opened and poured into the various coolers, then we returned to the steps.

“So …” I hazarded. “You spin spider silk and weave it.”

“Nope.” Eyes dancing with amusement, she shook her head.

“You turn into a swarm of spiders?” I offered next.

“Ew, no,” she denied, looking highly entertained.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Putting aside all other weird and wonderful variations on that theme, I’m getting the impression that you can control spiders.”

She nodded, grinning widely. “But it’s not just spiders. Bugs. All types.”

“Nice,” I responded. “Very nice. How many can you control at once?”

“I have no idea,” she informed me. “Currently, in a two and a half block radius, there are four hundred and sixty-three thousand, seven hundred and ninety-two bugs of various description. I can control them all individually or en masse. I’ve controlled more.” She indicated the dying glow of the barbecue; a moth flew out of the darkness, circled it once, then flew on.

“Colour me very seriously impressed,” I told her sincerely. “And I might have been joking before, but I’m not now; I think you’ll make a spectacular hero.”

She half-turned away, to hide her face in shadow, but I could see the blush mounting in her cheeks. “Thanks,” she said, her voice slightly muffled. “That means a whole lot, coming from you.”

I grinned, and offered her a fist-bump; she took me up on it, answering my grin with one of hers.

“To tell the truth,” I told her, “I’m kind of jealous. For my job, I stand around in a uniform and look like a security guard. You’re gonna be going out, kicking ass and taking names, looking like a badass.”

“Oh, stop it,” she said, trying for an annoyed tone, but I could tell she was pleased.

“No, really,” I insisted. “I presume you’re doing fitness training.”

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “Running in the morning and afternoon, as well as other exercise.”

“That’s good,” I said approvingly. “Do you have much self-defence training?”

“Not … really,” she admitted.

“Well, tell you what. I’ll show you some stuff right now. Simple moves. You’ll pick it up in five minutes. It won’t make you into Bruce Lee or Chuck Norris, but it might give you the edge against someone in a fight sometime. Call it my contribution to the Taylor Hebert Badass fund.”

“Um … okay?” Her voice was doubtful.

“Wait here,” I told her, and strolled over to where Danny was talking to Kurt and Lacey. Gladys, I saw, was sitting nearby, sipping at her drink and listening to a group of the dock-workers argue sports. She caught my eye and nodded; I nodded back.

“Say, Danny,” I said. “I was just going to show Taylor a couple of the basic moves we learn as security guards. Maybe it’ll help her if she gets into a bullying situation again.”

“Sure,” agreed Danny readily. “Does she need to change into jeans or something?”

I shook my head. “Just arm bars and the like,” I told him. “Basic compliance holds.”

“Go right ahead,” he agreed expansively. I wasn’t sure how many beers he’d had, but he was definitely looking mellow.

“Thanks,” I said, and headed back to Taylor. “Okay, stand up,” I instructed. She obeyed; I walked her through a basic arm bar, from both sides, then invited her to try one on me. The first try was a little sloppy, but she got the hang of it, and by the fifth or sixth go, definitely had the idea of what she was doing.

Then I looked around, and realised that we had an audience. Everyone, including Gladys, was standing, watching the impromptu training course.

“Excellent,” I said cheerfully. “Can we have a volunteer, please. You there,” I said. “Alexander, right?”

“That’s me,” said the burly young dock-worker, moving forward sheepishly. “What do you want me to do?”

I stepped aside. “Taylor, you’re a security guard. Alex here’s trying to get into the club you’re standing in front of. Alex, Taylor’s stopping you from getting in. Shove her aside.”

Alexander stepped up, pushed at her with his right arm. Taylor took his wrist, turned it, and put him into a near-perfect arm bar. The dock-worker found himself in an awkward bent-over position, held by a girl half his size.

“Hey,” protested Alexander. “Ow!” Everyone else laughed at his discomfiture.

Reflexively, Taylor began to let up.

“Uh, uh,” I cautioned her. “You don’t let go just because they say ouch. Alex, do you think she can put you on your knees?”

He looked up at me. “Nope,” he stated boldly.

“Taylor,” I said, “apply just a bit of pressure, the way I showed you.”

Taylor applied pressure. Alexander resisted for a moment, then went to one knee. Everyone else applauded.

“You can let him go now, Taylor,” I told her. “Thanks for being a good sport, Alex.”

He nodded grudgingly to me as he got up. “You taught her pretty fast,” he admitted. “Reckon you could teach any of us that stuff?”

“Sure,” I agreed. “But you gotta agree, Taylor needs it more than you do. So I’m teaching her.”

He nodded in agreement. “What else you got?” he asked.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I showed Taylor several more compliance holds; she got to practise them first on me, then on consenting members of the audience, including her own father.

“Okay,” he said, after trying and failing to free himself from her carefully-applied grip. “You can let go now, Taylor.”

“Can I get a raise on my allowance first?” she asked sweetly, to general laughter. He was released moments later; rubbing his wrist, he came over to me and shook my hand.

“What’s that for?” I queried.

“Look at her,” he said quietly. “You’ve made her the star of the show, shown her that she can hold her own physically against larger people. I don’t think she’ll ever let herself be a bullying victim again.”

I looked over at Taylor’s shining face as she accepted the congratulations and praise from those around her. “You’ve got a pretty special daughter there, Danny,” I told him. “She’s got the potential to go far. I’m just doing my bit.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” he responded. “Any time you need a hand with anything, the Dockworkers Association will be there for you. Count on it.”

I blinked. Wow. “Okay, sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

=///=​

The party began winding down shortly after that; the dock-workers took their coolers and drifted away. Kurt and Lacey were the last to go; Kurt shook my hand again, but was much more careful about it than before.

“You’re all right in my book, Allen,” he said gruffly. “You take care.”

“You too,” I told him, then shook hands with Lacey.

She leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. “I might get you to teach me some of those things you were showing Taylor,” she said jokingly. “I need to keep Kurt in line somehow.”

“Any time,” I replied with a grin, even as he mock-recoiled away from her.

“Not likely, woman,” he protested. “I get beaten down enough by you already.”

With a chuckle, I turned back to help Danny carry the furniture back into the house, while Taylor chatted with Gladys.

“Thanks again,” Danny told me as we got the last chairs inside. “You know you’re welcome over anytime.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that,” I agreed. “I won’t be seeing Taylor once she makes the move to Arcadia, so I’ll want to keep up on how she’s doing somehow.”

He nodded. “Anytime,” he repeated.

“Oh, Michael,” Gladys said, entering from the living room. “I need to use the powder room before I go; is that all right?”

“Sure,” I told her. “I’ll be out at my car.” A thought struck me. “Actually, Taylor, I got something you might find useful. Come on out?”

She accompanied me out to where the pickup sat at the curb. “Wow,” she said, rubbing her arms against the gathering chill. “How old is this thing?”

“Some respect, please,” I retorted, mock-severely. “I’ve had it since before you were born.” I opened the passenger side door, and leaned the seat forward. There was a zippered vinyl wallet here, and I opened it, to reveal several small cylindrical objects. “Here,” I told her. “Have this, and this.”

“What are these?” she asked, handling them gingerly.

“Pepper spray and a screamer,” I told her.

“I’ve got pepper spray,” she pointed out.

I grinned. “Not this stuff, you don’t,” I contradicted her. “This is military grade. You spray this in someone’s eyes, his grandaddy feels it.” I raised an eyebrow, probably invisible in the dark. “Just the thing for capes that are tougher than the average bear.”

“Thanks,” she nodded, tucking it into her pocket. “I appreciate it. And this … screamer?”

“Miniature air horn,” I clarified. “Only good for a couple of blasts, but it’s great for deafening opponents.” I tapped the small belled horn on one side. “Point away from your face. I cannot stress this enough.”

“Got it,” she agreed. “And thanks again.” Quickly, she hugged me, and just as quickly let me go.

I felt unexpectedly, deeply, touched by the gesture. “It’s all good,” I told her. “Just … one more thing.”

“Yeah?” she asked.

“I’d advise you to tell your father,” I said quietly. “Let him know what’s up. Because your behaviour is going to change, and it’s better that he knows. Trust me on this.”

She looked at me for a long moment. I looked back.

In the end, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I think I can now.”

I smiled, and held out my fist. She bumped it, just as Gladys emerged from the front door.

“Ready to go?” I called out to her.

“Whenever you are, Michael,” she responded. “Good night, Taylor.”

“Good night – Gladys,” Taylor answered her, grinning so widely that I saw it even in the darkness.

“Take care, Taylor,” I said, rounding the car to the driver’s side.

“You too, Mike,” she told me. “And thanks for everything.”

=///=​

Gladys Knott was quiet for some of the drive back to her house. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, thoughtful.

“That was a really nice thing you did for young Taylor, back there.”

I half-shrugged. “I like doing good things for people. And when people really need it … I feel even better about doing them.”

She nodded in the semi-darkness. “It doesn’t make it any less admirable.”

I half-shrugged again. “Thanks.” It was inadequate, but it was all I could think of to say.

=///=​

When I pulled to a halt in front of her house, Gladys reached out and took my hand. “I want to thank you for a really, really enjoyable evening,” she said softly. I was surprised enough by the feeing of her fingers closing over mine; when she reached up with her other hand, and pulled my head around, I didn’t know how to react.

Her lips were soft and warm on mine. The kiss lasted forever; it lasted no time at all. By the time it ended, my head was whirling, my heart was racing, and there was a roaring in my ears.

“Now, I am not the sort of woman who invites a man into her house after one date,” she said softly. “So I expect to see you again, quite soon, Michael. Is that quite understood?”

“I … um … yes?” I mumbled, trying to unscramble my vocal cords.

“Good,” she murmured, and kissed me again, a promise against more. And then she was out of the vehicle and striding up her front path. In a kind of daze, I watched her open the front door, turn on the inside light, and then turn and wave, silhouetted against the light. Stupidly, I waved back, fully aware that she could not see me inside the vehicle at all.

=///=​

I was still in somewhat of a daze when I put the vehicle into gear again and headed back to my place. Twenty-plus years of driving experience let me handle the mundane actions of controlling the pickup, while the rest of my brain replayed what had happened.

Wow, I thought. Wow, and good God.

I wasn’t quite sure how I managed to find my street again, but I did; I pulled into the apartment complex and parked in my spot. I was still mulling over the delightful kiss bestowed upon me by Gladys Knott, and thus I was more than halfway across the courtyard to the stairs leading to my apartment when I became aware that I was not alone.

Specifically, this was made known to me when a knife pricked at my back, just over my kidneys, through my jacket.

“Wallet and keys, fat boy,” growled a voice. “And don’t fuck around.”

Of all the times I choose to not wear my stab vest, I told myself. I had to choose the time I actually get mugged.

Fuck.


End of Chapter Five

 

Security!

Chapter Six: Fifth Interaction


I went very still.

“Sure thing, buddy,” I said out loud. “I’ll do that right now. Let’s not do anything either one of us is going to regret.”

With my left hand, I reached into my pants pocket and retrieved my wallet. I held it up, and tossed it to the ground a little in front of me.

“Wallet,” I informed him. “Just like you asked.”

He jabbed me again, just a little harder. “Keys too, smartass.”

I forced a laugh. “Seriously? Have you seen my ride? Zero street cred there, buddy. And it’s over twenty years old. Resale value nil.”

The knife came away from my back. “Don’t get fucking smart with me, jerkass!”

I sensed that he was going to jab me a third time, harder still, and that this might just penetrate to a dangerous level. So I stepped forward, half-turning to my right. As soon as my left foot landed, I transferred the axis of the turn to that foot, pivoting on the ball of the foot. My right leg went with the momentum of the turn, swinging me back and around; in just a moment, I was a pace farther away from him, but facing back toward him.

He still held the knife, but now I could see him, and had more of a chance of defending myself.

He could have backed off; I would have let him go. But instead he came at me, slashing with the knife. I think he meant to scare me.

I tried to block it with my left forearm to his wrist. But I must have flinched back involuntarily, or he pulled back at the last instant; I felt a searing pain across the outer edge of my left forearm, halfway between the wrist and the elbow.

I shouted something then, from the pain. But reflex took over, and even as I pulled my left arm away from the pain, I caught his right wrist in my right hand. And twisted, against the joints, as I stepped around to his right.

The arm bar was half complete at that point. I had partial control of his arm, but he still held the knife. And if he just bent his elbow a little way, he could probably pull free. I needed to finish applying it, by putting the heel of my left hand against his elbow joint, locking it all the way open.

My left forearm hurt, a lot. I could feel blood on my arm, inside my jacket sleeve. He’d shown a willingness to cut me, and he still held the knife.

These thoughts passed through my mind in an instant. The decision wasn’t even conscious. I didn't hesitate.

With all the force I could muster, I put the heel of my hand through his elbow joint.

It jolted the cut on my left forearm, but that was already hurting. His elbow popped and crackled, and he screamed, high and long, even as his fingers opened and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. It clattered on the pebblestone of the courtyard.

I still had hold of his wrist, but his elbow was now bending the wrong way altogether; I had dislocated it, and probably done damage to the tendons, ligaments and cartilage that were supposed to keep it operating smoothly.

There was a momentary twinge of conscience; I had maimed this man, where I hadn’t really needed to. I supposed I could have just disarmed him. But then, I would have had an active, fighting opponent, while I was still bleeding from the wound he had dealt me, and the outcome may have been problematic.

I kicked the knife away; it skittered into the darkness. I’d find it later. When I let his wrist go, he sank to his knees, one arm clutching the other.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “Fuck. It hurts. You broke my fucking arm.”

I bent to pick up my wallet, keeping a wary eye on him. “Yeah well, you cut my arm, so I think we’re even,” I panted. My heart was racing. I didn’t need this sort of shit in my life. Shoving the wallet in my jacket pocket, I clamped my hand over the cut in my sleeve, feeling the sticky wetness against my skin. “I’ll just –“

I’d never heard the sound of a pistol being cocked in real life, but I had handled rifles before, and I had watched many movies, so when I heard it behind me now, I knew exactly what it was. For the second time in less than a minute, I froze.

“You’ll just fucking die, motherfucker,” grated a voice.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, I groaned internally. There's two of them.

=//=//=​

Taylor sat back on the sofa, feeling her whole body beginning to relax. Holding a sausage in her fingers, she dipped it in the ketchup on the plate on her lap, and took a bite.

“Good night, kiddo?” asked Danny, seating himself beside her.

She nodded, grinning happily, leaning to the side and letting her head fall on his shoulder. “It was awesome, Dad. Thanks. Thanks so much.”

He chuckled. “You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“I wasn’t sure about it at first,” she admitted. “But when everyone was so supportive, so nice about it …” She paused. “Thanks for inviting Mr Allen.”

Danny nodded, pouring soda into a plastic cup. “Want some?” he asked.

She sat up again. “Ooh, thanks,” she replied with a grin, accepting the cup.

“Thank Mike,” he replied with an answering grin. “He brought the bottle.” He paused. “I could see you were talking pretty seriously with him for a bit there. Anything I need to know about?”

She held off answering until she had drained half the cup.

“Yeah,” she said at last. “I wanted to ask him about some stuff, so he listened to me, then gave me his opinion.” She paused. “And then he told me that I should tell you about it.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Danny was amused. “And what, pray tell, was this about? Boys? The bullying?”

She shook her head. “It’s more important than that, Dad. A lot more important.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

Taylor took a deep breath. “I’ve got powers, Dad. I’m going to be a superhero.”

=//=//=​

“Listen,” I called out. “This doesn’t have to get any nastier than it has. Your buddy’s not badly hurt –“

I stopped talking; there had been a kind of grunt, and a sigh, followed by the clatter of metal on pebblestone. Carefully, I risked a look around. A man was sprawled on the ground, one arm outstretched, a dark object that I took to be his pistol was a good yard away from his hand.

Standing over him was a slim figure; all I could make out in the poor light was that it was possibly female, with long black hair.

She moved toward me, as if she were taking a Sunday stroll.

“Come on,” she said, putting a hand under my elbow to support me, “let’s get you inside. I need to ask you some questions.”

Her voice – with the accent that wasn't an accent – began to clue me in. But the next words she uttered sealed the deal for me.

“Door,” she said. “Michael Allen’s living room.”

And without fuss, a doorway opened up in space before us. With her assistance, we stepped through, and she helped me sit down at the chair I used for my laptop.

She found the light-switches and turned them on without fumbling or hesitating once, then turned to face me. She was beautiful, wearing a woman’s business suit. I nodded, once. It was definitely her.

I really wanted to prepare more, before I met her.

Ah well. The best-laid plans, and all that.

“Good evening, Contessa,” I said. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You know who I am,” she replied. It wasn’t a question.

I smiled slightly, even as my arm twinged. “I know quite a bit about you – Fortuna,” I confirmed. “But what I don’t know is why you’re here, now.”

She jolted at the mention of her real name, her eyes widening slightly. I wasn’t quite sure whether it was genuine surprise, or whether her Path to Victory was mandating these reactions so as to elicit my cooperation. Either way, it was working. I felt smug and knowledgeable, even as my instincts warned me that this was how she wanted me to feel.

“I came here to save your life, so that you would not die before you told me what I need to know from you,” she told me, quite bluntly.

I tilted my head. “But you don’t know what it is you need to know,” I guessed.

She shook her head. “It is hidden from me. I just knew I needed to ask you, and you would tell me, and it would help somehow.”

My head was beginning to clear, and my thoughts to race. “Well, before we have any sort of meaningful dialogue, how about we deal with my arm?” I asked. “And maybe my back? He poked me a couple of times with that damn knife.”

=//=//=​

Contessa probably wasn’t a trained medic, but I would not have been able to prove it by results. Using the contents of a small pack she was carrying, she cleaned and dressed the wound on my arm, after helping me take the jacket off. Her movements were calm, efficient and effective.

There was one small puncture wound on my back, which she also put a small dressing on for me.

“Very well,” she told me, pulling out a chair from my kitchen table and sitting opposite me. “The information you have; what is it?”

“The Endbringers and Scion,” I replied. “How to stop them, and other useful factoids.”

I paused; she waited expectantly.

I came to a decision. “I’ll tell you Friday,” I concluded.

Her gaze narrowed. “You will tell me now,” she said quietly.

“I could,” I admitted, “but then I’d never see you again, correct?”

She hesitated, then nodded, briefly.

“See, here’s the trouble,” I pointed out. “I’m just as invested as you are in saving the world, stopping the big nasties. But I also believe that there are people in the world who deserve to be saved. Who will get trodden under and hurt badly in the normal run of things. Now, I can’t save them all. But I can give a few a second chance, and you’re the only person who can help me with some of them.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “So what can I do between now and Friday to save these people?”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll be doing the saving, for the most part. I just need you to make it possible. Tip the odds, as it were.”

Her lips tightened. “I am not your plaything, your puppet. I have other duties. You will give me the information now.”

My heart was hammering. I was playing with fire now, and I knew it.

“Look,” I pointed out. “I could ask you to do stuff for me, but as soon as you have the information, you’re not compelled to do a damn thing. Seriously, how can I trust you to not simply walk away and never come back?”

She paused, considering this. To her credit, she did not even try to convince me that she would not do such a thing, given the opportunity.

Eventually, she seemed to come to a decision.

“Give me something,” she said. “Anything. Something solid. And I’ll do what you ask of me. But on Friday, I expect the rest.”

I nodded. I was wondering, now, if all this had been predicted by the Path of Victory, and if I was simply painting by the numbers here, or if I had truly caught her off guard.

Whichever it was, I decided, I was getting what I needed. So I chose not to worry about it.

“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll tell you about the Endbringers right now. I’ll tell you about Scion on Friday night. Okay?”

She nodded. “Okay,” she agreed. “What do you know about them?”

So I explained to her how they weren’t actually living beings, that their substance was made up of an artificial crystalline matter that got steadily denser as it got in toward their cores.

“I knew most of this already,” she told me impatiently.

“I was just getting started,” I chided her gently. “At the core, they are denser than should be possible in our space-time. They should be so heavy that they fall through the planet. But they don’t, because they cheat. All the time. Their blood isn’t blood; it’s there to look like blood. Their muscles aren’t needed; they’re there to provide body mass. They are nothing more or less than mobile artifacts, projections with more force, that will last beyond their creator’s demise.”

She stared at me. “They were created?” she blurted. “By what madman? Who would have done such a thing?”

“I’ll give you one guess,” I said quietly. “Who is the one cape you can’t predict, run a Path to Victory on?”

She was quiet for a very long moment.

“No,” she whispered. “Not him. It can’t be.”

I nodded. “Sorry.”

She stared. “But ... how? Why, by all that’s holy?”

I took a deep breath. “You know how the source to all your powers operates. Call them shards, passengers, agents, whatever. They give you your powers, but they also give you something else.” I paused. “A need for conflict.”

She nodded slowly, reluctantly.

“And you know David’s personal need for conflict,” I went on. “He wants to push himself, get into a combat that truly scares him, to get that boost to his powers, lift himself to the next level.”

Again, that reluctant nod.

“So,” I concluded. “We have exhibit A; the most powerful and versatile powerset on Earth, short of Scion himself. Exhibit B; a man whose mind, conscious and subconscious both, is obsessed with testing himself, with finding a worthy opponent. Exhibit C; the fact that his powerset quite often acts outside of his conscious volition. And exhibit D; a shard that, like every other shard, actively promotes conflict. Mix those in together and tell me what you get.”

I leaned back in my chair, winced as I pressed against the dressing on my back, leaned forward slightly. “Tell me it’s not possible. Tell me he doesn’t have means, motive and opportunity.”

She shook her head, but more as a rearguard action than as a flat-out denial. “It is so hard to believe ... he is a great hero.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “He is. He really is. He doesn’t know what he’s done. All he knows is that the Endbringers are the perfect opponent. They can’t be killed –“ Yet, I amended silently, “ – but they can be driven away, they will do terrible damage if not stopped, and he can go all-out against them.”

She bit her lip. “How can I believe what you are saying?” she asked. “Even if it’s true, how do I act upon it?”

I shrugged. “You came to me,” I pointed out. “Your Path to Victory led you here. And as for acting on it ... well, that’s between you and the rest of Cauldron. I can’t tell you what to do. Don’t believe it, do nothing. Believe it ... do something. Your choice, your move.”

“What happens,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and spoke normally. “What happens if he is killed? Will the Endbringers ... dissolve?”

I shook my head. “But they should stop attacking human centres indiscriminately. Right now, they’re acting under his subconscious direction. Kill him, render him inert, remove his powers, and chances are that we won’t see any more attacks.” I paused. “Or at least, so I believe. I can’t know for sure.”

She nodded. “Your vision is as cloudy as mine, then. Or just a little less so.”

I shrugged again. “If he is killed by Scion, they become amenable to direction, after a fashion. They assist in the fight. If it’s not Scion who kills him ... I don’t know.”

She stared at me. “You have seen this?”

I half-smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”

“But you are not a parahuman.”

“Also correct.”

Her gaze was puzzled. “I cannot work out how you know this. It is most frustrating.”

I chuckled. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing. So. Good enough data to hold you till Friday night?”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “So what is it that you wish me to do before Friday?”

I looked her in the eye. “Several things, as a matter of fact. Starting on Sunday night ...”

=//=//=​

“So how long were you going to go before telling me about this?” asked Danny Hebert.

Taylor drew in a deep breath. “I ... really don’t know,” she admitted. “Before Friday, I was ... in a bad place. You know this. You had things on your mind, I didn’t want to admit that the bullying was still going on, because it would just cause trouble and get us nowhere.”

She paused. “It was a vicious cycle, really. And me having powers, my preparation to be a superhero, was my way out of it. But I had to do it on my own, I had to prove to myself that I could do it. Escape from the shitty life at school.”

“And the shitty life here at home, too, I suppose,” he said, his voice soft, sounding disappointed.

She shook her head. “No, Dad. Never. You’ve never been a disappointment to me. But ... when you were unable to do anything meaningful after the locker incident, you were so hurt. I didn’t want to hurt you again.”

“You know, it does hurt a little bit that you went to Mike and not me about this,” he pointed out. “It also hurts a bit to know that Mike was the one to help you at the school, where I couldn’t.”

“Dad, it’s his job,” she pointed out. “And I asked him because ... well, I don’t know. It just felt right.”

Danny nodded. “I think I do,” he told her. “He’s an authority figure who’s shown himself to be on your side. He earned your respect and gratitude – and mine – at the school. You think a lot of him. So you wanted to earn his respect. He said you’d be a great cape. The rest is easy.”

Taylor flushed. “I don’t think more of him than I do of you, Dad,” she protested. “He’s a great guy, but you’re my Dad.”

Danny hugged her. “I don’t hold it against you,” he soothed her. “Mike’s just done more for you recently than I have. It’s my job to redress that balance. So I’m gonna be a better Dad for you than I have been over the past few months, okay?”

Taylor laid her head against his chest. “I would have told you, really, if I had found the right place and time to do it,” she told him. “It was just never the right time.”

Danny nodded. “I know. It came as a nasty shock when you did tell me. But it was something that had to be done. You did say Mike told you to tell me?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It was about the last thing he said before he went. Just to make sure I remembered, I guess.”

“Well, I’m grateful for that, at least,” Danny commented. He let her go and got up off the sofa. “I think I’ll give him a call.”

Taylor nodded. “Please don’t yell at him too much.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured her.

=//=//=​

“Absolutely not!” snapped Contessa. “You shouldn’t even know about that! There is no way you get that sort of clearance!”

“Just for a once-off,” I pointed out. “It averts so many problems, including Cauldron being outed, down the track.”

Her gaze sharpened; had she been endowed with laser vision, I would have been toasted through and through.

“You are surely not making a threat ...” she began.

I shook my head. “Not me. Eidolon.”

A look of utter disbelief crossed her face. “Not Eidolon. I accepted what you said earlier, but this ... not a deliberate betrayal.”

“Well, okay,” I admitted, “not Eidolon specifically, but an evil clone, with his basic powerset. Which is why you can’t see it.”

“An evil clone,” she repeated, disbelief heavy in her voice.

“I kid you not,” I assured her. “He also kills Myrddin. But help me with this, that never happens, and you not only get a bunch of capes who are willing to work for you, but you also get a huge advance on your ability to work out future problems.”

“That’s a big difference from Cauldron being outed,” she observed.

“It is,” I agreed. “Played right, that’s what can be done. But I do need that clearance.”

She took a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Appreciated,” I told her. “And thanks again for saving my sorry ass.”

She nodded, her expression wry. “I’m certainly paying enough for my good deed.”

I had to chuckle. “Sorry for giving you a hard time like that.”

She offered me a half-smile as she stood. “I suspect I may have needed that little lesson in humility. I do appreciate your assistance, if not the content of what you have told me.”

“I just hope you can use it,” I told her.

She nodded. “So do I.” She raised one eyebrow. “You did realise that I could have had you taken by Cauldron and questioned extensively, and that they would have had all your answers within minutes?”

I nodded. “I did realise that. But you also realised that I could give you a set of nonsensical answers, and you’d never know the difference. I’m giving you these answers of my own free will. And that’s how your Path to Victory told you to ask for them.”

She looked a little put out. “I am not used to people knowing about that,” she told me severely. “I hope you don’t spread it around.”

“Me?” I asked, spreading my hand over my chest. “I’m just a simple security guard. I know nothing about things like that.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “A simple security guard.” Raising her voice slightly, she added, “Door.”

A portal opened, beyond which was a white, gleaming corridor. She turned to me, and nodded once. “Friday, then,” she said.

“Friday,” I agreed. “See you then.”

She stepped through, and it closed behind her. I let out a long pent-up breath.

She could have taken me in so easily. But she didn’t.

I pondered the matter for a moment. I must figure into her PtV later on down the track, and dragging me in for questioning would disrupt that.

I was still trying to figure out whether that was creepy, cool or downright scary, when the phone rang.


I picked it up; it was Danny’s number.

“Danny, hi,” I said cheerfully. “I’m guessing you had that little chat with Taylor?”

He sounded somewhat aggrieved. “Hello, Mike,” he replied. “I’m not sure whether I should be pissed at you or pleased with you.”

“I can understand that,” I agreed. “I’m not a father, but I can imagine that it would be a horrible shock.”

“Actually, it kind of makes sense, now,” he admitted. “A lot of little things adding up. Her running, to get fit. She’s been just a little more secretive.”

“Okay, here’s the question,” I proposed. “Are you pleased she told you, or unhappy?”

“Pleased that she told me, unhappy that this is happening at all,” he replied at once. “Thanks for asking her to tell me, by the way.”

“Hey,” I assured him, “I promised her that I wouldn’t tell you, but I figured you needed to know. But as for the fact of the matter ... whether you knew or not, she’s going to do it, you do understand this, right? If you forbid her, she’ll likely agree, then sneak out anyway.”

He sighed, his voice heavy. “Yeah. This does seem to mean a great deal to her.”

I chuckled. “’A great deal’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” I told him. “It’s basically the biggest thing in her life right now. She needs to do this. She needs to assert herself in this way. She needs to prove she can do it.”

“But I’m worried,” Danny confessed. “She’s only fifteen. She’s my little girl. She can’t ... I’m scared that she’ll go out and never come back.”

I took a deep breath. “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll go out with her. Just to keep an eye on her.”

The pause was so long I wondered if the connection had been broken.

“You’ll do that?” he asked me.

“Sure,” I confirmed. “I’ve always wanted to be a sidekick, anyway. First sign of trouble, I call for the cavalry.”

“And you’re sure you can handle that?” he asked.

I shrugged, although he couldn’t see me. “I’d say ‘how hard can it be’ but that’d be asking for trouble. So let’s just say, I’ll be loaded for bear. Literally.”

He took a deep breath, then released it, audible over the phone. “If you can do that for me ... I would seriously owe you. More than I do now.”

“Actually, as for that,” I observed. “You might be able to do me a bit of a favour. Suppose I asked you to put up someone for a month or so; a teenage girl, about Taylor’s age. Would you be able to do it?”

“Sure,” he replied immediately. “That would be no problem at all. Is she in some sort of trouble?”

“Not as such,” I responded. “Just needs to get away from a fairly horrible home situation.”

“What do her parents think about this?” he asked next.

“When they find out, I doubt they’ll complain much,” I assured him. “But it’s okay?”

“Sure, it’s okay,” he told me. “Just give me a heads-up when and if, all right?”

“I can do that,” I replied. “So, tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, tomorrow night,” he agreed. “You will take care of her, won’t you?”

“She’ll probably end up taking care of me, but yes, I’ll do my best,” I promised.

“I suppose that’ll have to do. See you then.”

“See you then.”


I hung up and looked at the clock. I really should have been getting to bed, but I was still feeling too jumpy. I needed to do something to wind down.

I spun the chair around and booted up the laptop.

=//=//=​

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♦ Private message from GstringGirl:

GstringGirl *New Message*: hi. you sent me a friend request?
mack0813: Why yes, yes I did. Want to chat sometime?
GstringGirl: i’d like that. what do you want to chat about?
mack0813: Anything and everything, really. Just ... there is one thing.
GstringGirl: what?
mack0813: I am not, repeat not, interested in meeting up. I’m sure you’re a very nice girl, but I have my reasons. So I’ll chat about anything under the sun, but I don’t do pics and I don’t do hookups. I’d prefer to keep my illusions about who I’m chatting to. Deal?
mack0813: Sorry about the rant. I’ve been burned before.
GstringGirl: sure, that’s ok. i’m kind of that way myself. parents are really strict, and are really worried that I might meet someone nasty online.
mack0813: I did. Enough said. Lesson learned.
mack0813: So, anyway. What do you like to do as a hobby?
GstringGirl: oh, uh, Ive been playing this computer game called Space Opera, but I’m not really that good at it.
mack0813: Tell me about it. Pac-Man is about my speed. And I still suck at that.
GstringGirl: rly? wow.
mack0813: Wow what, that I suck at Pac-Man?
GstringGirl: no, that you've played it at all. Ive never known anyone who even admits to having played it before.
mack0813: Heh. Well, yeah, poorly. As for things like Space Opera, I've seen it, but seriously? They really expect me to memorise all those controls?
GstringGirl: i have trouble with it too. Ive done my best, but nearly everyone else I chat to doesn't understand why I have so much trouble with it.
mack0813: And that's all they want to talk about, right?
GstringGirl: oh, you have no idea. theyve got all their hints and tips and tricks, but if I'm not good enough to use them, what use is it to me?
mack0813: I hear you. Trust me, I know how that goes.
GstringGirl: so if you don't play Space Opera, what do you play?
mack0813: Online roleplaying games, mostly.
GstringGirl: ... im not sure what you mean by that. or does it mean what i think it does?
mack0813: ?
mack0813: Oh! Oh, no, not *that* sort of roleplaying.
GstringGirl: oh, thats a relief. i don't do cyber. it sounds kind of icky.
mack0813: Let's just say, it's an acquired taste. No, no, what I do is an online version of tabletop gaming.
GstringGirl: not sure what that is.
mack0813: Well, basically? It's all about imagination and escapism. Creating a story where you're the hero, and virtually anything can happen, because it's your story.
GstringGirl: ... still not sure I understand.
mack0813: Okay, let me give you an example. Or better yet, a demonstration. Imagine a clearing in a forest.
GstringGirl: all right, i’m imagining it.
mack0813: Okay, now imagine that you’re standing in that clearing. Or rather, the character that you want to play. Who is that character, what does he or she look like, and why is he or she there in the first place?
GstringGirl: … what, I can be anyone?
mack0813: Sure. Describe yourself. Or rather, your character. Who you are, what you look like, has zero bearing in this case.
GstringGirl: are bad things going to happen in this?
mack0813: I prefer for good things to happen.
GstringGirl: ok, Im a slave girl on the run from a cruel master.
mack0813: … wow, that one came out of left field. This is good. I like it. Okay, what’s the slave girl’s name, what does she look like, what’s she wearing?
GstringGirl: her name is Svetlana. she’s tall and slender, with dusky skin, long dark hair, and flashing latina eyes.
mack0813: Flashing Latina eyes. You have a knack for description.
GstringGirl: you think so?
mack0813: Sure. I can see her already. What is she wearing?
GstringGirl: sort of a dancing girl outfit, but one that actually covers her.
mack0813: But a little bit torn because she’s been running through the forest?
GstringGirl: but she’s still totally modest.
mack0813: We can go with that, sure. Okay, now, we’ve established the character. I’ll just fill in a bit more of the background, if you like.
GstringGirl: she’s not his concubine, okay?
mack0813: Wasn’t even going to go there. Okay, so. Svetlana is originally from a desert-dwelling tribe in the southern part of the continent of Anganda.
GstringGirl: Anganda? Where’s that?
mack0813: Right next door to the island of Turok.
GstringGirl: this is like all those weird countries in Lord of the Rings, right? Mordor and Gondor and stuff like that?
mack0813: Exactly. Building a fantasy world, you can call things what you want.
GstringGirl: ok then. svetlana’s from Anganda. her family’s sort of like Bedouins, I guess.
mack0813: Sounds about right. Well, they were indentured servants to a really rich family, until there was a little trouble with Svetlana and the oldest son of the household. You see, because she’s very pretty, he decided that it was his right to sample the wares.
GstringGirl: he didnt though, did he?
mack0813: No. Another housemaid saw you running past, and found him curled up in agony. Svetlana had kicked him exactly where you don’t want to be kicked at a time like this.
GstringGirl: the stomach?
mack0813: … yeah, we’ll go with that.
GstringGirl: she got in trouble for that, didn’t she?
mack0813: That generally happens when you do that sort of thing, I’m afraid.
GstringGirl: so what happened then?
mack0813: Well, her father was ordered to pay recompense, and he couldn’t even begin to afford that. So there was only one alternative. Your character was sold into slavery.
GstringGirl: and that’s how she became a slave girl?
mack0813: That’s how she became a slave girl.
mack0813: So anyway, she was shipped up to Lantara, in the northern part of Anganda, to be sold off as a troublesome slave.
GstringGirl: but that’s not fair! she was only defending herself!
mack0813: Unfortunately, indentured servitude is only about one step above slavery in that part of the world, so yeah, fairness doesn’t come into it. So anyway, you were sold off to a merchant called Janji. Older guy, a little creepy, fat and repulsive. Never bathed, just rubbed scented oils into his skin to hide his body odour.
GstringGirl: sounds disgusting.
mack0813: Just a little bit, yes.
GstringGirl: so when do I escape from him?
mack0813: Not yet. First off, you were taken on board ship. Old-style sailing ship. You think Svetlana would have been okay, or seasick?
GstringGirl: maybe sick the first day or so, but fine after that.
mack0813: yup, sounds good. Janji … not so much. He pretty well colonised the rail the whole trip.
GstringGirl: hahaha the wimp. So how long was the trip?
mack0813: About a week. The island of Chadan lies between Anganda and Turok, and the captain wanted to give it a wide berth.
GstringGirl: whys that? whats so bad about Chadan?
mack0813: When Svetlana asked one of the sailors, she was told that Chadan was a ‘death island’. People don’t go there. The stories go that even ships that drop anchor in the waters around Chadan are not seen again.
GstringGirl: did I get the impression he was trying to frighten me? i was thinking, if people don’t go to Chadan, it might be the perfect place for a runaway slave to hide out.
mack0813: Not really. You got the impression he was being perfectly matter-of-fact. Water is wet, the sky is blue, people don’t go to Chadan.
GstringGirl: huh. ok, so maybe its not the best idea to jump off the ship and swim in to the shore.
mack0813: Well, there’s that. Also, swimming in open water is fairly hazardous.
GstringGirl: hazardous, why?
mack0813: Well, there’s the seadrakes, the long-necks, the megalodons and the ones they called Death From Below.
GstringGirl: what are all those?
mack0813: Seadrakes are dragons that are adapted to the ocean. Long-necks are basically plesiosaurs. Megalodons are eighty-foot great white sharks. And Death From Below … have you ever heard of the marine dinosaur they call Predator X?
GstringGirl: not really, but I can look it up.
mack0813: Okay, sure. Crocodile head, four big flippers, short tail. Used to hunt plesiosaurs, back in the day.
GstringGirl: you mentioned dragons.
mack0813: Oh yeah, didn’t I say? There’s dragons.
GstringGirl: ok, now this is starting to sound cool. but I have a question. why do ships even go out on the ocean with all those nasty things out there?
mack0813: Because the average ship is a hard target. All of those critters are solo hunters, so they’d have to work to sink a ship. And in the meantime, the sailors are doing their best to kill the predator. So they usually go after softer prey.
GstringGirl: well, that makes sense. so, what happens? we go around Chadan, the ‘death island’, and we get to … what was it? Durok?
mack0813: Turok. You land at a port to the north-east corner of the island of Turok. You don’t know much about it except that there’s a kingdom called Mornas there, and they’re all barbarians who don’t speak Angandan, or even Lantrai. And there’s all these *trees* here.
GstringGirl: whats so odd about trees?
mack0813: You’re a desert dweller, remember. Trees, for you, come in small clumps. Outside the port, there are *forests*. It’s really weird, not being able to see past the treeline.
GstringGirl: oh right. yes, that would be strange.
mack0813: Jeez, look at the time. Sorry, but I really think I should get to bed.
GstringGirl: oh sry i didn’t mean to keep u up.
mack0813: Eh, I’m a big boy. So, wanna keep playing once I get some sleep?
GstringGirl: yes, plz. i want to see how svetlana gets out of this.
mack0813: Sweet. Well, g’night, G-girl.
GstringGirl: good night mack.

=//=//=​

Sveta logged off the computer and carefully placed her body on the sleeping shelf. She was tired; it had been a long time since she had spent so much time chatting to someone. But it had been fun, too. Mack didn’t try to pry, and he didn’t want to chat about Space Opera. And she wanted to see where the story with Svetlana the slave girl was going.

It was nice to chat with someone who just treated her like an ordinary person.

Smiling slightly to herself, she coiled her tentacles loosely around her sleeping perch, and drifted off to sleep.

=//=//=​

I rubbed my eyes as I watched the laptop power down. That had been fun. And if Sveta thought the idea of seadrakes was cool, wait till she met the hearth-dragons.

But as enjoyable as that had been, I really needed to get some sleep.

Standing up, I stretched – wincing as I inadvertently tugged on the dressing on my arm – and headed off to bed.

Tomorrow, after all, was another day.


End of Chapter Six

 

Security!

Chapter Seven: Calm Before the Storm

I woke at five thirty in the morning, with the alarm blaring in my ear. All over again, I experienced that same feeling of disorientation, of being in the wrong place. Lying there, in that half-awake state that can so easily go either way, I considered seriously the notion that somehow I was indeed stuck in a dream of some sort. After all, I still remembered sitting down to write up the fanfic placing my self-insert character into Winslow High.

Perhaps I had gone out that night for whatever reason, and gotten into an accident. Maybe I was in a coma, either traumatic or induced, and my subconscious was filling in the long blank with the story I had intended to write. After all, author-falls-into-story fics were not exactly unknown, being the most blatant of SIs.

Being in a coma would explain why I had not woken from the dream, if dream it was. But I found myself reluctant to accept that idea, much less act on it. Maybe my very success so far was proof that it was a dream after all, but then, maybe I had just been lucky. After all, the knowledge I had been able to display, coupled with a confident attitude, had probably done the trick.

I thought back to the scene in the story where Dragon and Defiant, along with the Wards, confronted Taylor in the cafeteria at Arcadia. Without costume, without weapons, with barely any bugs to call on, Taylor still had them bluffed, by sheer virtue of her reputation as Skitter.

I suspected that, without even knowing it, or intending to, I had pulled off much the same sort of stunt with Armsmaster and the Director. The Wormverse, after all, was a place where the power to level buildings could reside in the frame of a deceptively slight teenage girl, and people knew it. In such a world, it only made sense to be wary of someone who showed confidence in the face of adversity; all too often, where cape powers were concerned, such confidence would be shown to be entirely justified. Given their experience, Emily Piggot and Colin Wallis were not the sort of people to take unnecessary chances in that regard.

My attitude, coupled with the information I had so casually dispensed, had given them pause, long enough for them to think about what I was saying. I wasn't quite sure what their final assessment of me was, but there was probably a cape mixed into their theories somewhere. After all, it was almost an article of faith in the Wormverse that it took a parahuman to really accomplish anything of importance. I was an anomaly, one that didn't fit into their patterns, so they made a pattern to fit me into.

I rolled over, and as if on cue, my mind switched on to a different track.

Taylor was going to go out tonight.

I had more or less railroaded her on to this path as a part of my campaign to build up her self-esteem, but I had begun having second thoughts almost immediately afterward. Sure, she had the armour costume, sure she had the milspec pepper spray, sure she had the screamer. But she also had a different attitude, more confident, and that would likely cause her to approach the matter in a different way. And this just might kill her. I was terrified that I was sending a fifteen year old girl out to be immolated and gutted by an unstoppable killer.

That was if she even encountered Lung, of course. But if she didn't, if the ABB went on their way, and Lung met the Undersiders while he was still at full strength, while they were fighting Oni Lee, the results could be deadly for the teen villains.

I didn’t want that to happen; I had a certain amount of feeling for them.

Brian, for all his flaws, was trying to do right by his sister. Lisa wanted out from under Coil's thumb - and was in some danger of becoming a replacement for Dinah if and when the Alcott kidnapping failed - and Rachel just wanted to be left alone with her dogs.

Alec ... I had less sympathy for. Yes, he didn’t have much in the way of finer feelings. Sociopath, almost certainly. But this wasn’t his fault; growing up with Heartbreaker would twist almost anyone’s mind. And he did do that thing for Taylor - or rather, would have, if Shadow Stalker wasn't already on her way back to juvenile detention. And he would also have sacrificed himself to save Aisha’s life, in a future that probably woudn’t happen now anyway. But the potential was there.

Long story short, I didn't really like the idea of any of the Undersiders dying just so that Taylor could have an easier time of it. So I had decided to see if I could arrange matters for the best possible result; the Undersiders surviving, Lung defeated, and most importantly, Taylor coming out of it alive and hopefully with a win under her belt.

A lot of this, of course, hinged on Contessa's ability to manipulate matters behind the scenes. Or rather, her willingness to use that ability to assist me, in return for the information about Scion. She wanted it badly; or at least, I hoped she wanted it as badly as I thought she did. If she screwed me on it, would I still give her the information, just to save the world? Or would I descend to the pettiness of the rest of the world, and hold out, just to spite her?

I surely hoped that I would never have to find out. I strongly suspected that I would give up the information before I would let the world burn; if this was true, and Contessa knew it, it would be easier for her to simply ignore some or all of my requests, and simply hold out her hand for the information on Friday.

But then, there was the alternate outcome I had mentioned; the outing of Cauldron by Eidolon's clone, and the death of Myrddin. She could not plan to stop that, because she could not fit Eidolon into her Path to Victory ...

This was doing me no good. My mind was going around and around in circles, and I was reaching no useful conclusions. But nor was I finding my way back into the sleep state from which my alarm had so rudely jolted me.

I threw back the covers and sat up, then paused to consider; if this was a dream, it was a remarkably detailed one, if I was irritated about being woken up from a sound sleep within that dream.

My feet found the floor, and I flinched. I was still not used to the chill of Brockton Bay early mornings. It wasn't quite as cold as the time I had visited Jersey in February, quite a few years ago, but it was cold enough, thank you very much.

As I stretched, the cut on my arm twinged sharply, drawing my attention to it in no uncertain terms.

Oh yeah, that happened, didn’t it?

I found the slippers, pulled on the dressing-gown, and padded off to the bathroom. There was a reasonably equipped medical kit there; I cut up a plastic bag and wrapped it around the dressing, sticking it in place with medical tape. When I was fairly sure that it would stay dry, I got into the shower. At least the water was hot and plentiful. I faced into the spray, letting the water run over me, feeling my head clear.

My priorities gradually emerged from the chaos. I had undertaken to go out with Taylor; when I had said I would be going loaded for bear, I had meant with all the equipment Michael Allen possessed for dangerous security work; stab vest, baton, pepper spray, screamer, concealed firearm. But I wondered, now, if I owned anything I had not yet discovered. This was, after all, America.

Finding Lung and the ABB would not be a problem; if I chose to find them, we would find them. But what we would do once we found them was still very much up in the air. If she knew it was Lung to begin with, would she still want to engage? If she knew that the ‘children’ she was attacking him to save were villains, would she still choose to save them, or let the matter go?

If she chose not to attack, then I could not very well force her to change her mind; coercing a teenager to launch an unprovoked attack on a highly dangerous cape was a very bad idea. I would be far better off if she chose to attack; I would then be able to offer safe alternatives for poor tactics.

Safer alternatives, I corrected in my own head. When it came to cape battles, there was no such thing as ‘safe’.

But I knew the pitfalls, and so I would do my best to steer Taylor past them. It wasn’t just saving the world; I wanted Taylor, herself, to be happy and secure and alive. Reading the story, I had felt her pain, her unhappiness as her world repeatedly unravelled around her, leaving her to bear the burden of action, to do what needed to be done, no matter how much it hurt. But still, she was merely a character in a story, until I had unexpectedly arrived within the story myself.

Now, she was real. Her pain was real. Danny’s pain was real. I knew her story from beginning to end, the pain, the betrayal, the struggle, the hurt. What she would be forced to do, just to fix things, to make things work.

She didn’t deserve to have to make the choice to shoot an infant child, to save Aster from the tender mercies of Jack Slash, the only way she could. She didn’t deserve to be the one to condemn five capes to death along with Noelle Meinhardt, to make the call while everyone else stayed silent. She didn’t deserve to suffer the endless bullying from the three girls, from the day she began high school to the day she chose to never attend again.

That last, I could only curtail; the bullying had been done, the damage inflicted. Pain, from which she would never really recover. The scars would run deep, for the rest of her life. But those girls would never have that hold over her again; that, I could ensure. Noelle Meinhardt would never become Echidna; that also, I could ensure. Aster Klara Anders would grow up to become the delight of her mother’s eye; I would do my best to give both her and Kayden a second chance they never had in the story, a second chance they would never know about.

I didn’t know how long I would survive in Brockton Bay, doing the things I was doing. Sooner or later, someone of note would pay attention to me, and something would happen to me. Best case, I would be recruited by one side or another. Worst case, I would be disappeared. But before that day came, I would do my best to ensure that the worst would not come for the rest of the world.

It was the least I could do.

=///=​

With such morbid thoughts running through my head, I finished drying myself off, and got dressed. The dressing had made it through the shower intact; I stripped off the plastic cover.

There was a closet in my room that I had not gone through, and now I did.

Maybe I own a shotgun, I thought idly. A pump action shotgun, like the one I nearly bought that one time. That would be kind of cool.

And I did find something. But it wasn’t a pump action shotgun. It was something that was much more familiar to me.

The case was stamped metal, with a padlock holding it closed. A separate locked metal box was marked MAGS AMMO CLEANING. I found the keys on my keyring, opened the padlock. Lifted the lid, and unwrapped the oily rags from around the long shape within.

“Well, shit,” I said out loud as I looked down at what I had found. “Looks like I never got rid of it.”

I lifted the gun off its nest of rags, pulled back the cocking handle to ensure that there was nothing in the breech, then let it clack forward once more. The action worked smoothly. Then I held it to my shoulder and dry-fired it; the crisp click brought back memories.

Many years ago, when I had been temporarily in funds, I had decided to buy a rifle. I had a weapons permit, due to family connections, and I wanted to own a gun. I was in my twenties; this seemed to be the thing to do. So I had quite legally purchased a second (third? Fourth?) hand M-1 carbine. I had actually nearly bought a chromed pump shotgun instead, but the cost of ammo had dissuaded me.

I had fun with my carbine; I went out to a local firing range and put a good many rounds through it – relatively low-power ammunition, so fairly cheap – before taking it home and going through the ritual of cleaning it. Two fifteen-round magazines had come with it, and I purchased a thirty-round magazine – ostensibly for an M-2, but it would fit the M-1 – a little later. It would have been the height of illegality to carry it openly with a fully loaded magazine of either size in it, so I never did. But it was still fun to own, and go shooting at the range occasionally.

A shooting spree at a holiday resort was what put paid to my gun ownership days. It was decreed that all previously legally owned semi-automatic rifles and carbines were a danger to the population, and so my gun was bought back by the government – for less than I had originally paid for it – and destroyed.

However, it seemed that in this reality, Michael Allen had never had to give it up.

I put it back into its case and re-wrapped the oily rags around it. Carefully, I locked the case, and put it back into the closet. I was thinking hard. The gun, unloaded of course, would fit behind the seat of my pickup.

An M-1 carbine threw a pistol-strength .30 calibre round, but the other locked box – I investigated - held both soft-nose and hollow-point rounds. And it would fire as fast as I could squeeze the trigger, which would put a large number of those rounds downrange in a very short time.

It wasn’t a modern assault rifle; it wasn’t even a pump-action shotgun. But it was still a gun. Designed for ease of carrying and use, it would serve to dissuade random ABB thugs, and may just tip the balance (or at least serve as a distraction) in a battle with Lung.

I would take any advantage I could get.

=///=​

Back in the bathroom, I washed the gun oil off of my hands, and headed into the kitchen. I was in a thoughtful mood as I poured milk on to my cereal.

This was my third morning in Brockton Bay, and I had already caused a good many butterflies to go on their way. Moreover, I was planning to send a good many more around and about. Tonight’s excursion with Taylor would probably cause a few, just on its own. I hoped that it would not make Contessa’s job any harder than it had to be.

I flicked on the TV; the programming was evenly divided between Sunday morning church services, and rebuilding efforts in those cities that had been hit most recently by Behemoth and Leviathan. The damage caused by the Simurgh was a good deal more subtle, and far more dangerous, as I understood things.

With a shudder, I turned it off again. I could not let myself watch too much, or I might simply give up hope. Most people simply accepted what was going on; for those under thirty, it had been a fact of life for them since birth. I knew, or thought I knew, that it could be changed, could be fixed. How it could be fixed.

Not by me personally, of course. But I could set up the dominoes, send them toppling.

Knowledge, properly applied, has a power all of its own.

=///=​

Around about nine o’clock, I picked up the phone and dialled Gladys Knott’s number.

This wasn’t part of any long-term world-saving plan that I was hatching; I just felt that it would be nice to spend time with her. When one is on the wrong side of forty, one does not turn down the opportunity for friendly companionship. Especially from a lady with whom one has already shared a kiss.

She answered the phone with a chuckle. “Good morning, Michael,” she greeted me. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did indeed,” I told her. “Are you busy this morning?”

“Just a little,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

Her tone of voice told me that she knew perfectly well why I was asking. I grinned and shook my head.

“Oh, just wondering if you’d like to actually go out and get that coffee at some point,” I commented casually.

“Well,” she told me, with equal casualness, “I will be grading projects until about eleven thirty. If you’re free then, I would positively adore the chance to go out and get some coffee.”

“That sounds reasonable to me,” I told her. “Eleven thirty, right?”

“Indeed,” she confirmed. “I’ll see you then?”

“I’ll be outside,” I agreed. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, Michael.”


I put the phone down again, and regarded it pensively. I didn’t know if I was being too needy, too eager, for human companionship. Back home I hadn’t needed it quite so much, but then, back home I didn’t have so much weighing on my every move either. I didn’t think I would be unburdening my every problem on to Gladys’ shoulders, but it would be nice to spend time with her.

And talking about that, there was someone else that I needed to spend time with as well; or rather, someone who needed to spend time with me. I sat down at the laptop and booted it up.

=///=​

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=///=​

mack0813: Knock knock, anybody awake?
GstringGirl : hi mack. how are you?
mack0813: fighting fit and twice as ugly, you?
GstringGirl : ... what?
mack0813: heh, sorry, it’s a thing I say.
GstringGirl : ah, I see. is it supposed to mean anything?
mack0813: Not overly, I suppose. So, is Svetlana ready to kick ass and take names?
GstringGirl : yes!
GstringGirl : i mean, unless you want to chat about something else.
mack0813: That’s your choice. Never let it be said that I stand between a lady and her roleplaying.
GstringGirl : actually, before we start, can I ask you a sort of personal question?
mack0813: You can ask. I don’t promise to answer.
GstringGirl : okay, I guess thats fair. what does the ‘mack’ in ur username mean? Is it ur actual name, or are u into trucks or something?
mack0813: Heh. Neither, really. It’s a sort of mix of my first name and middle name. I got called it years ago, and it kind of stuck. Now only my really close friends know to call me it. And since I’ve moved, that’s basically no-one. You’re the first person to call me that name in like forever.
GstringGirl : oh, sry. didnt mean to bring up bad memories
mack0813: Hey, is all good. It’s nice to have someone calling me by that name. Everyone around here calls me by my real name, and that’s boring.
GstringGirl : oh ok, if it’s all right then?
mack0813: Yeah, no worries. Though you got me curious now too. Can I ask if there’s a funny story behind your username, or is that too personal?
GstringGirl : its sort of personal. can we not talk about that plz?
mack0813: Not talk about what? I was asking you if Svetlana was ready to go, and we got distracted by some totally unimportant stuff.
GstringGirl : yes, shes ready to go. Thanks.
mack0813: No worries. So. Do you remember where we were up to?
GstringGirl : We had landed in a port on this island called Turok, in a kingdom called Moris or something?
mack0813: The kingdom is called Mornas. It basically covers the top third of the island of Turok. Turok’s about twice the size of Alaska, by the way.
GstringGirl : thats some island
mack0813: It surely is. So anyway, Svetlana’s pretty well got her sea legs by the time the ship berths in the harbour. There are these things squawking over the harbour that look like seagulls but have teeth as well as beaks. You know of them; in fact, true birds don’t really exist in this world.
GstringGirl : where do they get eggs from?
mack0813: There are these lizard-like things, about the size and shape of chickens, with feathers across the backs and down the arms to make sort-of wings. But they’re mainly scaly, and they have lizard heads with teeth. They lay a sort of leathery skinned egg, about the same size and shape as a chicken egg.
GstringGirl : ive noticed there’s a lot of dinosaury things about this world.
mack0813: Why yes, yes, there is. Funny, that.
GstringGirl : is there a reason for this?
mack0813: Does there need to be a reason for dinosaurs?
GstringGirl : i suppose not. Dinosaurs are cool too.
mack0813: Yes, they are. So anyway, as Svetlana strolls down the gangplank, and Janji stumbles after her, looking like he’s lost about ten pounds, and smelling like something scraped from the bottom of a privy barrel ...
GstringGirl : so about the same as normal, then.
GstringGirl : you still there mack?
mack0813: oh god, laughing so hard that it hurts. Seriously, I nearly just fell off my chair.
mack0813: You get an experience point for that.
GstringGirl : a what?
mack0813: Okay, I’m basically making up this system on the fly, but an experience point is something that you can spend at any time to make something good happen, to make something that was already good even better, or to make a bad thing not happen. I just gave you one. Spend it wisely.
GstringGirl : do I have to spend it right away?
mack0813: No, just remember that you’ve got it. Any time you want to change what I’ve just said happens, tell me you’re spending your experience point.
GstringGirl : so how do I get more? do I have to say other funny stuff?
mack0813: No, I’m basically giving them out when you show you’re really getting into the game. Like just now. You just came out with that comment without even thinking about it. So any time you come up with an awesome bit of roleplaying, I’ll give you one. They’re meant to be few and far between, so don’t strain yourself. Just be yourself, and have fun. You’ll get more. You’re a natural at this.
GstringGirl : oh wow thanks. you have no idea how much that means to me.
mack0813: Hey, is all good. I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em.
mack0813: So. As Svetlana comes down to dock level, with Janji stumbling after, and looking like he wants to fall on the dockside and kiss it, she is struck by the sheer multitude and variety of people going by. This is a busy port.
GstringGirl : Svetlana looks around. What does she see?
mack0813: There are men with every shade of hair from white through red to black, and other men with dark skin, darker than hers. There are men wearing what look like dresses, and women wearing men’s clothing and carrrying weapons. Among all this, Svetlana, wearing her dancing girl outfit, is unusual only because of her beauty. And then she sees something else.
GstringGirl : What’s that?
mack0813: She hears a screech, somewhat different from the toothy gulls. Looking up, she sees a couple of flying things, about the size of a large cat – though domestic cats don’t exist here either – squabbling over half a fish. One is bright blue, one is bright red, they have iridescent wings ... yeah, they’re dragons. Small enough to sit on your shoulder.
GstringGirl : dragons? Really? Small dragons? Are they cute?
mack0813: Oh yeah. Even squabbling like they are now, they are so cute it hurts. Now, you’ve heard of these things before, but you’d never seen them, so you’d never really thought about them. They’re called hearth-dragons, and they’re one of the three types of dragons you’ve heard of.
GstringGirl : oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh
GstringGirl : that’s what svetlana says
mack0813: Haha so cute. Yes, okay, you get another experience point for that.
GstringGirl : oooh thx. Um, what are the other types of dragons?
mack0813: Well, there’s the hearth-dragons. They’re supposed to be cute – you can attest to that – and friendly and mischievous. They’re also supposed to bring good luck. Then there’s the drakes. They’re about twice the size of a large horse, and they’re savage and carnivorous. There’s nine different types, but most of them fly and all of them will eat you alive.
GstringGirl : wow. thats a bit of a difference. whats the third type?
mack0813: No-one knows for sure if they really exist or if they’re just legends. They’re called the Ancient dragons, or the Ancients for short. People swear to them, not like gods, but like really powerful beings. “By the Ancients”, stuff like that. No-one you know has ever seen one, or has ever met anyone who’s seen one. But they were supposed to be huge. Really big. And seriously powerful. Intelligent, talking, and really good at magic.
GstringGirl : magic? theres magic too?
mack0813: Well, that’s what people call it. People use it too, but not quite in the same way. With humans, it’s broken down into three aspects; the Way, the Art and the Craft. The Way focuses inward; it’s sort of like training for anime martial arts. The Craft is like Tinkers do, building stuff that shouldn’t work but does.
mack0813: And the Art focuses on living things and the world around you, things like making it rain and making crops grow. A master in the Art can heal wounds on someone, but it takes hours or even days of concentration. It’s very slow, gentle and gradual. But it works.
GstringGirl : wow it sounds like youve thought about this a lot.
mack0813: I’ve been putting it together over a while, yes.
GstringGirl : so can Svetlana do any of this stuff?
mack0813: She’s never shown any aptitude, sorry. Besides, indentured servants and slave girls don’t exactly get the chance to go off and practise with magic.
GstringGirl : I’d like to see if she can learn it sometime.
mack0813: That can definitely be done. Once you get away from Janji, that is. Remember him? Your smelly, smelly master?
GstringGirl : Oh god how can i forget
mack0813: So anyway, Svetlana is staring up at the dragons overhead, when suddenly she is jerked forward by the slender chain that is fastened to her wrist. It’s basically the way they keep track of slaves. Less intrusive than a collar around the neck.
GstringGirl : Svetlana moves forward obediently, while glancing upward, hoping to catch another glimpse of the cute little dragons.
mack0813: You see another couple as you are led through the streets of the port city. One that looked bright green, and one was a golden yellow.
GstringGirl : oh so adorable. now I want one.
mack0813: well, you’ve heard they’re friendly. All you’ve got to do is find one that wants to make friends.
GstringGirl : Svetlana is definitely looking out for that now.
mack0813: ... and the chance to run away?
GstringGirl : oh, that too. definitely that.
mack0813: Well, on that note, I’m going to have to run away myself, sorry. Real life yanks on my chain, and like Svetlana, I have to obey. But I will return.
GstringGirl : ok mack. its been really nice chatting to you. and sry about being rude about my name.
mack0813: I recall no rudeness. We’re both adults. I asked; you didn’t feel like answering. Is all good. And just by the by, it’s really nice chatting with you too. I’m having fun running this game.
GstringGirl : thats good, because I’m having fun playing it. and I’m learning so much about this world. It feels so real.
mack0813: Trust me, G-girl, I know exactly how that feels.
mack0813: Actually, question. Is it okay to call you G-girl, or do you have a nickname you’d prefer I use?
GstringGirl : I hadn’t really thought about it. i guess ... would it seem weird if I asked you to call me Svetlana? after my character?
mack0813: Weird? Not in the slightest. So you’d like me to call you Svetlana?
GstringGirl : ... yes, I think I would. I really would. Thanks, Mack.
mack0813: You’re welcome. And anyway, Svetlana’s a cute name. I like it.
GstringGirl : oh, uh, it’s just one i came up with on the spur of the moment
mack0813: Well, it’s cute anyway. But yeah, gotta make like a nervous shepherd.
GstringGirl : ?
mack0813: And get the flock outta here.
GstringGirl : hahahahahahahaha bye mack
mack0813: Bye Svetlana.

You have signed out of Private Chat.

=///=​

Sveta logged out of the chat, and eased away from the computer. It was so nice talking to Mack. He never made any demands, never asked awkward questions, or if he did, let the subject drop as soon as he realised.

He was nice to her. Gentlemanly. Polite. Made jokes, but never at her expense, and laughed at her jokes. And he’s having fun running the game for me. He said so.

She turned to the book she was using for her drawings, and turned to a fresh page. Slowly, carefully, she began to draw a picture of a dusky-skinned slave girl called Svetlana, with a blue dragon on one shoulder and a green dragon on the other.

As she worked, she hummed, and her tendrils waved gently around her smiling face.

=///=​

I shut down the laptop. The time was ten forty; enough time to freshen up and get dressed in smart casuals, just the thing to go out for coffee in. I still had a smile on my face from the chat with Sveta. She was really starting to get into the impromptu game, and I was enjoying it myself.

I had no idea how to bring about a good end for Sveta, but I could and would be her friend.

=///=​

This time round, I found my way to Gladys Knott’s front door relatively quickly. She was expecting me; I barely had time to knock once before she opened the door. She was dressed in slacks and blouse rather than a dress today, and looked quite fetching.

“You’re early,” she observed.

“Yeah, sorry,” I acknowledged with a sheepish shrug. “I didn’t want to leave you waiting, so I headed out early, and I guess I didn’t get lost this time.”

She smiled indulgently. “Come on in,” she invited. “I have orange juice in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t say no,” I told her. “I appreciate it.”

Carefully wiping my feet, I entered, closing the door behind me. The living room was dimly lit, compared to the glare outside; even after taking my sunglasses off, I was still left blinking.

“Have a seat,” she directed me, pointing at a comfortable-looking sofa. “I’ll get that juice.”

Making sure not to kick or bump anything, I made my way to the sofa and sat down, leaning back as I sank into the cushions.

“Wow,” I said, “this is nice. Really nice.”

“Thank you,” she replied, looking pleased. She brought over a glass of juice, then returned to the computer.

“Grading schoolwork?” I guessed, sipping at the juice.

“You know it,” she agreed, typing a few words then hitting Enter. “They said that bringing computers into the classroom would make work easier. From what I see, it just gives the teachers more work to grade. Not an improvement.”

“Yeah well, I think I’ll stick to my job,” I observed cheerfully. “I just have to tell the little ratbags where to go and what to do. I’ll leave the hard bit to the experts.” She wrinkled her nose at me.

She finished the grading at about the same time as I finished the orange juice; I rinsed the glass in the sink, then turned to see her stand up from the computer and stretch. I watched with interest; I might not be twenty any more, and nor was she, but there were still a few curves under that blouse. She turned, and raised her eyebrow as she caught me looking.

“Ready to roll?” I asked her. Wanna make something of it?

She smiled. “Always.” Not in the slightest.

=///=​

“So there he is. It’s a one-way stretch of road. One lane. The sign says Do Not Enter, and he’s pulled up right in front of it, waiting for this other car to come through. It’s dark, so he’s got his headlights on. He’s in this van, so his point of view is higher up. I mean, he can’t not see the damn sign, right?”

Gladys nodded, and took a sip of her coffee. I drank from my iced chocolate milk.

“Please tell me that he didn’t drive down,” she said, in tones that made it clear that she knew exactly what was coming.

I shrugged. “As soon as the other car was clear … he drove down.” A pause, while I had some more chocolate milk. “Now, I’d been watching him. I didn’t quite believe that he was going to do it till he did it, but I had eyes on, so when he started down, I stepped on to the road.”

“So what did he do then?” Gladys seemed to have forgotten her coffee.

“Well, in that situation, there’s two types of people,” I elaborated. “The ones who basically go, oh crap, there’s a security guard, and start reversing immediately. And then there’s the type who try to bluff it out.” Another shrug. “He tried to bluff it out.”

Gladys did not speak; she merely closed her eyes and shook her head sadly.

I grinned and went on with the story. “So he comes on down. I’m wearing a reflective vest, so he stops. Leans out the window and asks me what the problem is.”

Gladys’ eyes were wide. “He didn’t,” she stated flatly.

I nodded to contradict her. “He did,” I confirmed. “Now, I’d seen his plates as I walked up, from someplace down south, Louisiana or Florida or someplace, I forget exactly. So as I came up to his window, I put on a drawl and told him that I could tell he was from one of the southern states, so I’d speak slowly.”

Gladys choked back a giggle. “You didn’t!” she accused me.

I chuckled. “I surely did. Then I asked him if Do Not Enter meant the same down south as it did up here; I was kind of curious.” I rolled my eyes. “And that’s when he said, ‘Oh, I didn’t see the sign.’.”

Gladys shook her head again.

“So of course, this gave me the perfect opportunity to be sarcastic at him,” I went on cheerfully. “I pointed out that he’d been sitting there, waiting for the other car to come past, with his headlights shining directly on the sign. So there was either something wrong with his headlights, with his eyes … or with his brain.”

Gladys had her hand over her mouth now, trying to stifle her giggles.

“So he told me I didn’t have to be so rude. I told him that this wasn’t rude. Rude would be if I pulled out my camera and took a photo of him, in his van, pointing the wrong way down the road, and then handed said photo to the police. I was merely being polite and asking him to take his heap of crap van, and reverse it down the road and … well, and out of my life.”

Gladys snorted laughter. “I just bet you were that polite too,” she chuckled dryly.

I grinned. “I might have thrown a few more words in, yeah,” I admitted. “Anyway, I told him that if he wanted rude, we could do rude. I was good with rude. It was his choice.” A shrug. “He chose to reverse.”

She drank more coffee, having gotten her mirth under control. “I’m not surprised, given the choice you handed him. But weren’t you a bit harsh with him?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Gladys, I’m surprised at you. And you a teacher and all.”

“Why, what do you mean?” her voice was curious.

“I mean,” I told her, “that you should know the number one rule for getting kids to learn something.”

She frowned. “I don’t see … oh!” she exclaimed. “You have to get their attention. And you got his attention.”

I nodded. “I did,” I confirmed. “I doubt that he’ll ever forget that little encounter.”

She returned my nod. “Somehow, I suspect you’re right.” We shared a grin of perfect understanding.

I finished off my milk, and debated getting another one. While I was thinking about it, Gladys leaned forward.

“I just want to say, Michael,” she said, and put her hand on my arm. Specifically, on the dressing under my shirt sleeve. My wince was minimal, but she still picked up on it. “Michael? What’s the matter with your arm?” Her voice had gone from warm to concerned in an instant.

“It’s nothing,” I claimed evasively. “Just a little cut.”

“You didn’t have this last night,” she told me. “When did you get cut?”

I cleared my throat uncomfortably. “I, uh, got mugged,” I told her. “He got the worst of it, I promise,” I added quickly.

“Really.” Her voice was sceptical.

“Really,” I repeated. “He was going to stab me, so I fought back. I got cut, and he got a broken elbow out of it. I managed to make it inside, and I suppose he staggered off somewhere.”

“Take me home immediately,” she ordered me. “I want to check how bad it is.”

“It’s good, honest,” I tried to tell her. “I’m fine.”

“And when were you going to change the dressing?” she asked me tartly. “Or have it seen to by a medical professional?”

I shrugged uncomfortably. “When I got the time,” I mumbled.

“Just as I thought,” she muttered. “Men.”

I didn’t have a choice; I drove her back to her place.

=///=​

My sleeve wouldn’t roll up that far, so she had me remove my shirt. I was acutely aware of my overweight, hairy torso, but she was briskly professional about the whole thing. Carefully, she removed the dressing, causing me to suck my breath in as she pulled the last bits free.

“Well, it’s clean, and doesn’t seem to be inflamed,” she informed me critically, as if she had been expecting far worse. “You didn’t do this one-handed. Who patched you up?”

“A, um, bystander,” I extemporised. “She saw it happen, helped me inside, put the dressing on, then left.” Which was, broadly speaking, true.

Gladys shot me a suspicious glance – there were holes in my story, and we could both see them, but she wsn’t going to push this just now – and went back to her examination of my arm. “This needs stitches, really,” she told me.

“Just a bandage will do me just fine,” I responded. If I was going to be exerting myself, I did not want to be pulling stitches.

She pursed her lips but did not argue. Carefully, she cleaned and disinfected it again, then applied a new dressing. She’d had training at some point; I could tell. When she was finished, she examined the dressing on my back, the one I hadn’t bothered covering for the shower.

“You shouldn’t let these get wet,” she scolded me, peeling it off.

“It’s only a small cut,” I defended myself.

She prodded it with a sharp fingernail, making me yelp. “Well, it seems to have closed all right,” she told me, “but that was still a silly thing to do.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know,” I admitted. “But I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment, and I really, really wanted to just get out and spend some nice time in your company.”

“Not your bystander?” she asked with an arch look, but I could tell she was pleased.

“She had places to be,” I responded. “And besides? Not my type.” I reached for my shirt. “Okay to put this back on now? I feel kind of exposed here.”

She nodded. “Yes, please,” she agreed dryly. “As much as I like you, I don’t believe that we have reached that point in our relationship quite yet.”

I chuckled a little self-consciously as I put my shirt on. As I was tucking it in, she leaned in toward me. “But I did enjoy myself quite a lot today,” she added softly. “Thank you for that.”

“I, uh, thanks?” I said awkwardly. “I’ve really enjoyed this too …”

“But,” she went on, “you’ve glanced at your watch three times since we got back here, so I presume you have some place to be. I don’t want to keep you.”

I jerked guiltily; I had not been aware of checking the time. “Sorry,” I apologised. “Like I said, things on my mind. But I’ve really enjoyed talking to you too.”

She nodded encouragingly; I cleared my throat. “So … another time?”

“Another time,” she agreed, “when you’re not quite so distracted.”

Reluctantly, I got up from the sofa. I really, really didn’t want to go.

“Thanks for checking my arm,” I said belatedly.

She smiled and shrugged. “Any time. Just get it seen to properly, all right?”

I nodded. “I will.”

I put on my sunglasses as I walked outside; as I got into the pickup, I saw her standing in the doorway, watching. I waved; she waved back.

I started the engine and drove off. It wasn’t the hardest thing I’d ever done, but it was in the top ten.

With an effort, I dragged my mind away from distracting thoughts of Gladys Knott. I had to get my head in the game. I had to gear up, then get over to the Heberts’ and pretend that I knew what the hell I was doing. Taylor was depending on me to get it right.

I just hoped to God that I could pull it off.


End of Chapter Seven

 

Security!

Chapter Eight: Fight!


My mind was still somewhat disorganised when I got back to my flat. I had wanted to stay, to sit on the sofa and talk with Gladys. I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to see where that went.

But I had to get my head in the game. The first thing I did was take a shower, as cold as it would go. Mid-afternoon, the cold water wasn’t freezing, but it wasn’t far off of it. The plastic bag I wrapped around the dressing kept out the water, again, so I would not draw more ire.

=///=​

After the shower, I went looking through my clothing for anything dark. Dark blue, dark grey, black; it wouldn’t matter. Urban camo clothing would have been the best, but it appeared that my taste did not run that way.

A light T-shirt went on under the stab vest, then I started layering clothes. I had to pick them with care; I didn't want too many layers, or I'd sweat to death. But I did have certain requirements.

I assembled my outfit with as much care as any deb ball belle arranged the pleats and folds of her dress. Heavy boots and thick socks, check. Outer clothing all cotton or wool; nothing that would melt and stick to the skin if it caught on fire, check. Pockets to carry magazines in, check. A hooded jacket, check. A scarf to wrap around my face if necessary, check. Shoulder holster over the shirt but under the jacket, check. My equipment belt over the top, check.

=///=​

When it was all on, I walked around the flat, swinging my arms around, seeing how it went. It was a little confining, but I could handle it. With the hood up and the scarf around my face, I went into the bathroom to see how I looked. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing; I looked at least fifty kilos heavier than I really was.

Pulling the hood down, I tried on a watch cap, and it was an improvement; my ears weren't quite so muffled, and I had better peripheral vision. On the downside, it did less to hide my identity.

I fiddled around a bit more, before opening the gun case and the ammo box. The M-1 went over my left shoulder. I filled the magazines, and found that there were about five rounds loose in the box afterward; on reflection, I decided to leave them there. If I couldn't do the job with sixty rounds plus what I had in the Glock in the shoulder holster, I had no business bringing the gun out at all.

Shrugging the carbine off my shoulder, I double-checked that the breech was empty, then pulled a magazine from my pocket and pushed it into place. The push-through safety clicked into place; now, even if I accidentally yanked the cocking handle and chambered a round, it would not go off. Safety precautions thus satisfied, I walked around the flat some more, seeing how it hung with first the butt and then the barrel uppermost. Then I tried shrugging it off my shoulder, seeing how quickly I could get it into action from either angle.

=///=​

Roughly forty years previously, when I was far too smart for my own good, and far too young to know better, I had suffered a mishap through my own silly fault, which had left me without the top half of the index finger on my right hand. Despite my innate right-handedness, I had thus learned to utilise my left hand for some things that required an index finger. One of these, as it happened, was the use of firearms; toy guns at first, and then real ones. By the time I graduated to guns that fired actual bullets, all my reflexes were geared toward left-handed gun use. So it goes.

The M-1 carbine is a weapon designed for use by right-handers. A southpaw can fire it, but then has to either let go of the fore-stock with the right hand and yank back the cocking handle when it misfires - which it does, on occasion - or let go with the left hand, reach awkwardly across the weapon, and do the same thing. The magazine release is likewise in an awkward position for a left-handed shooter.

And of course, the ejected shells are thrown out to the right and rear of the weapon, which means that for the most part, a left-handed shooter will be struck in the right shoulder by an empty casing after every shot. Or, if he is particularly unlucky, the hot brass will go down his shirt front. I could attest, from personal experience, that this was no fun whatsoever.

All of which made taking the carbine out on this particular expedition a matter requiring some deliberation. But I decided that the extra firepower was the deciding factor here, even taking into account the extremely dodgy rear sights on this particular carbine. I could get reasonable groupings out to about ten yards, which was all I really needed.

=///=​

I was set; removing the jacket and shoulder holster, I shoved them in my work bag along with my equipment belt. The carbine, sans magazine, went into the bag as well, barrel first. Its stock protruded a little from the top of the bag, but I wrapped a towel around it, which sufficed to get it down to the pickup and out of sight behind the seat.

Locking the pickup, I headed back upstairs and booted up the laptop. I spent a little time thinking about what I wanted to say, then I started to type. What I ended up with was a series of lists of instructions and information for Taylor, for Danny, and for Director Piggot. These I encrypted, placed on to memory sticks, dropped into addressed envelopes, and left beside the computer.

On to the last memory stick, I loaded a series of instructions in plaintext, some of which had to do with defeating Scion, and some which did not. On a separate line, I added, 'Ask Tattletale.' That memory stick went into my pocket; if I were to die by some mischance, Contessa would of course be able to retrieve the data, and Lisa would be able to intuit which were the correct instructions. But it was hopefully hazy enough that she would not be tempted to simply bypass the middleman and grab the data.

Next, I logged on to the Parahumans Online server.

=///=​

Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.
You are currently logged in, mack0813
You are viewing:
• Threads you have replied to
• AND Threads that have new replies
• OR private message conversations with new replies
• Thread OP is displayed.
• Ten posts per page
• Last ten messages in private message history.
• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.
You have no infractions and no warnings.

=///=​

mack0813: Hey, Svetlana, you around?
GstringGirl: Oh hey. You’re back.
mack0813: I am, but not for long. Sorry.
GstringGirl: Awwww…
GstringGirl: Do we have time for a bit more of the game?
mack0813: I’d love to, but I have to rush again. I just dropped in to let you know that I might be offline for a bit. I’ll try not to be, but you know how things go.
GstringGirl: oh ok mack.
GstringGirl: it’s not something I said is it?
mack0813: Oh god no. Far from it. I am seriously enjoying our chats. I’m a little behind time right now, but I just wanted to get on and give you a heads-up about me maybe not being able to get on for a little while. Just in case, so you don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.
GstringGirl: oh, thanks. i appreciate it. i hate it when people just stop talking.
mack0813: Hey, that’ll never be me. You’re my best girl. *hugz*
GstringGirl: thank you mack, thank you. That means so much to me. *hugs*
mack0813: Listen, gotta go. But I’ll be back on when I can. Okay?
GstringGirl: okay Mack. I’ll see you when you get back. Goodbye Mack.
mack0813: Bye Svetlana.

You have signed out of Private Chat.

=///=​

In the memory stick addressed to Taylor was the request that she log on occasionally with my username and spend time with Sveta. It wouldn’t quite be the same, but it was the best I could do.

I clicked ‘Shut Down’ on the laptop, and stood up while it powered itself down.

It was time to go.

Taking one last look around the flat, I let myself out, leaving a light on to make it appear as though someone was still home.

No-one had disturbed the pickup; I got in, pulled out into the courtyard, and drove out on to the street.

=///=​

“Are you really sure you want to come out with me, Mr Allen?” asked Taylor dubiously.

She sat on the back steps, beside her father. I leaned on the rail, more or less where I had been standing when she had raised the question about becoming a superhero in the first place. The sun was sinking below the horizon to the west, and the sky was purpling over.

“I think it’s best, yeah,” I told her. “You’ll be taking lead, but I’ll be there to advise. Give you a feel for being a cape without totally hanging out in the breeze.”

“In other words, a babysitter,” she observed, though the words lacked heat.

I grinned; she wasn’t altogether wrong.

“Not really, kiddo,” Danny put in. “He’s got experience in dealing with people.”

“So have you, Dad,” she responded. “I notice you’re not volunteering.” She elbowed him gently in the side.

He chuckled, and elbowed her back. “Let’s have some respect for the old man,” he told her. “No, Mike’s a better choice than me. He was a taxi driver before he was a security guard; if anyone’s got experience with shady people, it will be him.”

“Wow,” I commented cheerfully, “that was such a ringing endorsement.”

Taylor laughed, and Danny chuckled again. “You know I didn’t mean it that way, Mike,” he protested.

I nodded. “I know,” I agreed. “I was thinking, we could drive around a bit, give Taylor a chance to gather together a bitchin’ swarm, get a feel for the way the evening’s going, then we could find a trouble spot and see what happens.”

“Ooh,” Taylor responded, her eyes lighting up behind her glasses. “That sounds awesome. Is that okay, Dad?”

Reluctantly, he nodded. “I know you’re going to want to go out on your own sooner or later, kiddo, but I’d much rather you started out by going out with Mike.”

“That’s the general idea,” I confirmed. “Think of it as a kind of test run. And we can talk about cape stuff. I have ideas on how capes should do things.”

“Despite the fact that you’re not a cape,” pointed out Danny dryly. Taylor smothered a chuckle.

“Laugh it up,” I told them both with a grin. “But think about it; what does a security guard do, but what a cape does, on a much smaller scale, and without powers to back him up?”

That made them both look very thoughtful indeed.

“You may actually have something there,” Danny admitted.

“Wow,” Taylor added. “I never thought of it like that before.”

I shrugged. “It’s not something people tend to think about.”

“You got that right,” Danny said, heaving himself to his feet. “I’m going to put dinner on. Lasagne all right, Mike?”

“Lasagne sounds great, Danny,” I agreed. “Need a hand?”

“Sure. You and Taylor can keep discussing matters while we put it on.”

=///=​

Once the lasagne was on to cook, we adjourned to the living room and watched some TV; in the ad breaks, I discussed the finer points of Taylor’s powers with her. At my behest, I had her close her eyes and bring in arrays of bugs to see if she could pick up a meaningful picture from the TV screen. She couldn’t, but then again, monitor screens had always been a problem for Taylor.

We were in the middle of an experiment in which she was plugging her ears and listening through the ears of various bugs, with only middling success, when Danny announced that the lasagne was cooked.

“I think it actually depends on the bugs you use,” I pointed out over dinner. “If you can get an array of bugs, with different hearing qualities, you should be able to learn to filter out the too-high and too-low sounds, to approximate normal hearing.”

Taylor considered that idea with her head on one side, while Danny shook his own head.

“Too strange for me,” he decided. “I’ll support you, whatever you want to do with your powers, but don’t ask me to come up with new uses for them.”

Taylor hugged him warmly. “Thanks, Dad,” she told him. “That means a lot to me.”

=///=​

We finished dinner and I chatted with them while they washed up – I was not allowed to participate, being a guest – and then Taylor looked at the clock.

“It’s late enough,” she observed. “Time we should be going?”

I leaned sideways and looked out the window. “Looks fairly dark out there,” I commented. “I figure you’re right.”

“So how are we going to do this?” asked Taylor. “Take the costume with us and I get changed out there?”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Put it on and put a jacket and sweatpants over it. When we find something for you to do, you take off the jacket and sweats, put the mask on, and you’re ready to roll.”

“But before you go,” Danny added, “can you get the whole thing on? I want to get photos.”

“What, really?” she asked, startled.

“Really,” he confirmed. “My daughter, the superhero. How can I not?”

She blushed to the roots of her hair, and hugged him again.

=///=​

We took the photos in the basement; the raw concrete walls gave the pictures more impact. She posed, first without and then with a swarm around her; it was eerie, seeing just those blank yellow eyes looking out from the midst of a swarm of buzzing creepy-crawlies.

“I can’t believe that you made this all yourself, and I never knew,” he marvelled, feeling one of the armour panels. “You could probably make serious money creating costumes for other people, you know.”

Again, she was startled. “I could?”

I nodded. “Oh, definitely,” I agreed.

She looked thoughtful all of a sudden. “Well, it’s definitely something I’ll think about,” she acknowledged. “But for now, I just want to be a superhero.”

“Well, o lady of the bugs,” I intoned with a mock bow, “your carriage awaits. Let us go a-superheroing.”

“Is that even a word?” she asked, giving me a look after pulling her mask off.

“Is now,” I grinned. “I just used it.”

She wrinkled her nose as she pulled on the jacket and stepped into the sweat pants. “I don’t think that’s really how it works,” she commented. She turned to her father, and hugged him. “Bye, Dad. I gotta go be a superhero now.”

He hugged her back fiercely. “You just come home safely, kiddo,” he told her softly; his voice had just the suspicion of a catch in it.

Letting he go, he shook my hand. “Take care of my little girl, Mike.”

I squeezed his hand in response. “I’ll do my best. You’ve raised a good kid here.”

By degrees, we got out on to the sidewalk, and Taylor got into the passenger seat of the pickup. I got in as well, and started the engine. We pulled away from the curb, leaving Danny standing forlornly there.

He was still standing there when we turned the corner.

=///=​

Taylor looked over at me. “I have a question.”

It was a little while before Taylor was due to clash with Lung, but I had no worries on that score. So instead, as I had told Danny, we cruised around and parked here and there. Bugs in the area converged on the pickup, swarming into the trayback. Even after the first few stops, we had the makings of a particularly nasty swarm.

I had chatted to her, used what she had already revealed to me about her powers to make suggestions. Swarm clones were something she was already working on outside the pickup; when I suggested using bugs to tag the joints of a foe to keep track of them in melee, she became quite thoughtful.

I knew that she would have thought of these ideas, and more, on her own – her power, combined with her own natural creativity, was a wellspring of such concepts – but if we leapfrogged over the first few basic concepts, it left the way open for her to evolve more interesting ideas of her own, faster than before.

But we were well into the slow cruise around town, slowly easing in on the location that the fight was to take place at, and she made that statement.

“I may have an answer,” I responded automatically.

“No, really,” she insisted. “I have a serious question. It’s simple and it’s serious. Why? Why me? Why me now?”

I blinked, taken aback. “I … don’t get what you mean,” I evaded.

She chuckled darkly. “I just bet you don’t.” She turned her head and a nearby streetlight reflected from her glasses, giving her a creepy blank stare for just a moment.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she went on. “You knew exactly when and where to walk into that bathroom, to catch those girls at it. You knew to have a voice recorder running. You knew something to say to that woman with Sophia, that made her overrule Mr Barnes. You had all your ducks lined up in a row, specifically to catch those girls bullying me, and to make the bullying charge stick. You didn’t miss a trick.”

I was silent. I wanted to see where she was going with this before I said anything more.

She nodded, as though I had just confirmed something. “There are other kids being bullied at Winslow; there have to be. But you picked me, and you changed everything. Even after we went home, you said something to the principal to get me transferred to Arcadia. And then, when Dad invited you to the party, you listened to me, and you said the exact right things to make me open up to you. You knew I had powers before I ever told you, didn’t you?”

“Hm,” I commented, neither acknowledging nor denying her allegations. The kid was sharper than I’d thought; that, or I had been much less careful than I had intended.

Again, she nodded. “So why? What’s so special about me? If you were going to save me from bullying, why now? Why not six months, a year, eighteen months ago?” She broke off, looking sideways at me. “I wondered for a while if you were some sort of sketchy pedo, but you don’t give off that vibe. You’ve never so much as looked at my chest. So I get that you’re trying to help me, but I don’t get why, and I don’t get why now.” She took a deep breath. “And I really don’t get how you know so much.”

I turned my head to look at her. “When I said you were always looking, always thinking, I was serious. But I honestly didn’t think you’d see through me this fast, Taylor.”

She ducked her head, pleased, but then raised it again. “That doesn’t answer the question,” she pointed out.

“A full and truthful answer to the question would be … fundamentally impossible for you to believe,” I told her honestly.

“Really,” she riposted, the word loaded with sarcasm.

“Really,” I repeated, my voice mild. “But I will tell you a story, which is close enough to the truth to not matter.”

That got her attention; I cleared my throat.

“I’m a time traveller from the year twenty fourteen.”

“Three years,” she answered, giving me a look of respect. “I’ve never heard of anyone travelling that far in time. Can you go forward again?”

“I can’t travel in time myself,” I made the hasty addendum. “It’s a sort of … one-time thing. So to speak.”

“Okay,” she acknowledged. “Time travel. Got it. Go on.”

I chose my words carefully. “Where I’m from, when I’m from, the story of what happened in your time, and thereafter, has been noted down in considerable, if spotty, detail. I’m a kind of student of this story, you might say.”

“Which is where you get the knowledge from,” she replied, nodding.

“Which is where I get the knowledge from,” I agreed. “And part of this knowledge is that the world is teetering toward an end, and one of the people who is instrumental in preventing the whole thing from going entirely down the drain …” I let my voice trail off.

She got the implication. “Me?” she squeaked, her voice hitting a higher register than she’d intended. She cleared her throat. “Me? What do you mean, me? I’ve just got bug powers.”

I chuckled. “Believe me, Taylor, by the time you’re well started, there are many, many people who have good reason not to underestimate ‘bug powers’.”

She was silent for a few moments. “So … you’re changing things. Are you supposed to be changing things?”

“I don’t know,” I told her honestly. “I am changing things, yes. But I’m being specific about it. Some of the troubles come about due to people not knowing crucial information early on. I’m making sure they do know it.”

“Okay,” she tried again. “Are you supposed to be stopping the bullying? Was I supposed to tell Dad? What if this makes me … I don’t know … unfit to save the world?”

“There’s more than one way to save the world,” I told her frankly. “I know the whole story, remember. I know other ways it could be done. And as for you … well, I know you and your life from this point, the way it would have run. It would not have been pleasant for you. And I am as fond of you as I would be of my own daughter, if I had one. Honestly? I couldn’t not stop the bullies, given the chance.” I grinned at her. “And you’re not the only one I’m helping out of a bad spot.”

She stared at me. “So you’re just doing this to help me now because you … like me?”

I nodded. “You’re a good kid. You have it within you to be a great superhero. I wasn’t joking, then. I’m not joking, now.”

Another long silence from her. “If you hadn’t intervened … at the school … what would have happened? Tonight?”

“Okay,” I told her. “On Friday, you would have taken the bus home, because all your stuff was covered in juice and soda. You would have found that your black and white speckled notepad, the one you’ve been keeping a coded record of your cape preparations, was soaked through, ruining some of the pages.”

“I found it,” she confirmed, sounding just a little surprised at my revelation.

I nodded. “Well, you would have decided to go out tonight. About midnight, after you were sure your father was asleep. But he hears you go out, and he lies awake, waiting for you to get back.”

“Oh, man,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “When you get back, the next morning, he talks to you and you lie; you say you were just going for a walk.”

She shook her head. “That’s not good.”

“Remember, in that timeline, you’re in a bad headspace. No-one’s on your side.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “So … what happens? What’s so important about going out tonight?”

“Well, you see, tonight is when you do two important things,” I told her. “One is to beat a bad guy. And the other is to meet some villains.”

“Who’s the bad guy?” she asked immediately. “And which villains?”

I shook my head. “Gonna have to keep some things under wraps for the moment, kid. If you know too much, or think you do, ahead of time, this could throw things out of alignment.”

She looked displeased at that, but didn’t argue.

“So, have I answered your questions to your satisfaction?” I asked in turn.

“Sort of,” she admitted. “But I’ve got a lot more I want to ask now.”

“Ask,” I invited her. “I might not answer. But before you ask, I want a count of every person in your range, excluding us.”

She was silent for a moment, her lips moving silently. “Seventy-six,” she reported. “Do I get a boyfriend?”

“Yes and no,” I told her. “That’s something you’re going to have to find out for yourself. Next question? And how many of those people are men?”

“Forty-three,” she reported. “What happens to me after I meet the villains in the other timeline?”

I opened my mouth to tell her, then paused. “I … don’t want to jinx it,” I temporised. “See above regarding knowing too much.”

She snorted. “For an all-knowing time traveller, you’re real close-mouthed when you want to be.”

“Mysterious oracle one-oh-one,” I retorted with a grin. “Never let them know everything at once.”

“Mysterious oracle my –“ she began, and then my phone rang.

“Sorry,” I told Taylor. “Gonna have to take this.”

She looked more than a little annoyed as I plugged in the earpiece that was already stuck in my ear; a hanging mic let me speak.

“Hello?” I said after hitting the green button.

The voice was Contessa’s. “It’s time. Take the third left.”

I started the pickup, and started moving forward. Turning to Taylor, I said to her, “Okay, grab all the bugs you can from here on in. It’s time.”

White-faced, even in the dim light, she nodded. “Gotcha.”

=///=​

I followed Contessa’s directions to the letter; I doubted that she was looking at a map, or even knew where we were. She was just saying what her power told her to say, to get us to a certain point in space at a certain point in time.

I idled the pickup through an alleyway and stopped when she told me to, the nose of the vehicle six feet from the far end.

“Two blocks to your left from the end of the alleyway,” she said, and hung up.

I sat for a long moment, before setting the handbrake, putting the vehicle in neutral and turning the engine off. “This is it.” My voice sounded strange in my ears.

“What?” asked Taylor.

“Down to the left, two blocks,” I told her. “Can you detect them?”

“Ah,” she noted, eyes widening slightly. “Fourteen people, in a building, gathered together.” She paused for a moment. “My bugs are finding … guns, I think.”

“That’s the ones,” I stated. I got out, pulling my bag with me. First, I slipped into the shoulder holster and then the jacket, and then I buckled on my equipment belt.

On the other side of the pickup, Taylor was taking off the jacket and sweats, and attaching armour panels. I pulled the seat forward, and unwrapped the towel from the M-1 carbine. Taking a magazine from my pocket, I slipped it into place, seating it with a firm click-clack. Then I pulled back the cocking handle, letting it run forward, chambering a round with another clack. Carefully, I set the safety, then slung the carbine, barrel downward, over my left shoulder.

Taylor was watching, wide-eyed, as I pulled the Glock 29 from under my jacket and pulled back the slide just a little way to ensure that a round was indeed chambered. I looked up as I returned it to the holster.

“What?” I asked.

She shook her head slightly. “You didn’t say you’d be bringing guns.”

I grinned slightly, without humour. “Never said I wouldn’t. I’m here to watch out for you. And I’m serious about it. Anyway, have you decided on a name yet?”

We had discussed those during the drive around; I had brought up a few, including Skitter, Weaver, Hive, Queen and a couple of others. Taylor hadn’t been able to make a choice.

She took a deep breath, then shook her shoulders to make sure the armour panels were fixed properly. “Let’s go with Weaver for the moment.” Pulling the mask over her head, she tugged her hair out through the back of it. And as easily as that, she went from teenage girl to creepy cape.

“Good choice,” I noted. “Let’s do this thing.”

We exited the alleyway and started walking toward the left. The street was unlit, but there was enough ambient illumination to place our footsteps quietly.

We were about half a block away when people started exiting from a two-storey building. A lighter flared as someone lit a cigarette.

Damn, I thought. Contessa’s timing is scary good.

=///=​

Reaching out, I made to draw Taylor – Weaver – in toward the side of the building we were standing beside. I needn’t have bothered; she was already there.

“They’re ABB,” she whispered, her voice very slightly distorted by the mask, but not enough to make her hard to understand. “I recognise the colours.”

“Right,” I murmured. “Got bugs on ‘em all?”

“Will in a moment,” she replied absently. “We have to get closer. We won’t be able to hear anything from this distance. But they might see us.”

“Use your bugs to scout the terrain,” I suggested.

She nodded seriously, and a moment later looked at me. “There’s a fire escape on the back of that building.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed.

We backtracked slightly, wending our way through trash-strewn alleyways, until we located the rusty fire escape. Weaver went up first, light and agile, and I followed on behind. It creaked and groaned under my weight, but held.

At the top, she was going to head forward to listen in, but I put my hand on her arm. “Okay, more information now,” I told her seriously. “The bad guy you’re going to take down is Lung. He regenerates like it’s going out of fashion, and the madder he gets, the bigger he gets. He grows metal scales over his body as he gets bigger. He can breathe fire, and he can cover himself in it, so once you start attacking him, hit him with everything you can, as hard as you can. Soft tissue areas. Got it?”

“Got it,” she nodded, and went to move off. I didn’t let go of her arm. She looked at me quizzically.

“Two more things,” I added. “When he gets big enough, he has enough super-strength to leap on top of this building … and he has super-hearing. Just so you know.”

“Super-strength and super-hearing,” she repeated carefully. “Got it.” She paused. “Why am I attacking him again? It seems like a really good reason to not attack him.”

I waved her forward. “Go. Listen. Make your own mind up.”

She stared at me for another moment, then nodded, and moved forward to where Lung was now addressing his troops.

I pulled my phone out and spent the time typing out a text.

Cape fight in progress.

I gave the address.

Lung involved.

Security.

I sent it to Director Piggot’s phone.

My phone had just returned a Message Sent acknowledgement when Weaver returned, moving carefully but quickly.

“He’s telling them to kill kids!” she told me; the indignation was clear in her voice. “I can’t let that happen!”

“I’ve already notified the PRT, but it’ll be a while before they get here,” I observed. “Someone’s gonna have to slow them up.”

“I’ll do more than slow them up,” she snapped.

And then I heard the first yells of pain and alarm from the front of the building.

=///=​

The temptation to go and see what was happening was considerable. However, I had no desire to be torn apart or barbecued. And it was fairly obvious what was happening.

The swarm which we had gathered had fallen upon the hapless ABB thugs. A few stings and bites had sufficed to send them scattering to the four winds. Some even ran past in the alley below us.

Once they were gone, the swarm focused its efforts upon Lung.

I really, really wanted to see this. I really, really knew that going to look was a bad idea.

I could hear him roaring and thrashing around, and I saw tongues of fire reaching toward the sky. I couldn’t tell what was going through Weaver’s mind as she directed the swarm in on him; at one point, she went to speak, and I held out my phone to her, a notepad function enabled.

Set himself on fire, she typed. Can he do that?

I nodded, the motion just visible in the dark.

Not fair, she added.

I shrugged. Took the phone back, and typed, Time to go?

She typed, Hes not down yet.

I frowned and nodded. When were the Undersiders supposed to show up? The timeline wasn’t exact. Had we jumped the gun?

Go anyway, I typed. She nodded in agreement, and gestured for me to go first. I figured she could keep up with me easily, and so I stepped on to the fire escape.

And that was when the M-1 carbine swung slightly, and the down-hanging barrel struck the side of the fire escape with a clear, metallic clang.

And the noise at the front of the building ceased. I heard – we both heard – a noise that was more bestial than human, which indicated satisfaction.

A brief pause, maybe a heartbeat or two. And then the crunch as Lung hit the side of the building, maybe three-quarters of the way up.

“Oh, shit,” she said clearly.

I concurred exactly.

“Down,” I told her. “Now.”

She didn’t argue. We bolted down the fire escape.

This was not in the plan.


End of Chapter Eight

[Author’s Note: Evil cliffhanger because I’m evil.]

 

Security!

Chapter Nine: Heroes and Villains


There was no need for quiet now; Lung’s enhanced hearing was obviously working just fine. I thundered down the fire escape, my weight causing it to shudder and groan as I leaped down three and four steps at a time.

“Go go go!” I shouted, making room for Weaver to get past me. She could move faster than me; if I had miscalculated, and Contessa was pulling some plan to take the details for Scion’s demise off my smoking corpse, at least Taylor Hebert would have a chance at survival.

She slipped past me, dancing down the steps where I crashed and banged. Lung didn’t need super-hearing to hear me; he could probably hear me through earplugs. But once we hit ground level …

“Did you blind him?” I yelled over the sound of my own progress.

“How did you –“ she began, then stopped herself. “One eye only!” she continued.

Which meant that his other eye was perfectly fine.

Fuck.

=//=//=​

Weaver had hit ground level; I was still a few yards above what I considered safe jumping distance. Above us, I heard a bellowing roar, which I interpreted as the words, “I see you!”

I leaped down another couple of steps; the rusted metal creaked and groaned. If he thought I was going to stop, just because he knew where I was …

A rush of heated air, a smashing concussion on the ground below. Lung straightened from a crouch, covered in metallic scales, at least half again as tall as I was. Flames licked around his body.

“Too slow,” he rumbled in a feral growl. “Time to die.” I saw him look up toward me, obviously preparing to do something supremely nasty to me. Probably immolation in a fireball. I could have tried to reverse course, run away, but that would separate me from the teenage girl already in the alleyway. And I wasn’t going to abandon Taylor.

And then Taylor straightened up from her hiding place, almost directly beneath me. Her arm was straight out, in her hand was one of the items I had given her the previous night.

Lung’s head twitched around to stare at her, just as she squeezed the activation button.

A stream of liquid sprayed out toward his face. It almost missed, but a twitch of the wrist corrected her aim, and she angled it so that it tracked neatly across both eyes. There was a minor explosion as some of the liquid ignited on contact with the flames that wreathed him, but the majority got through.

He bellowed in agony – I decided absently that I would write a commendation for the product supplied by that company – and clawed at his eyes with one hand. The other was sweeping around in a direct collision course with Taylor’s slim body.

I knew she was wearing spider silk armour. I knew she might be able to take the hit. But I didn’t care. I was already vaulting over the railing, and falling. Almost right on top of her. Pushing her aside.

Taking the hit.

It hurt.

=//=//=​

If anyone had chosen to ask me, afterward, exactly how Lung hit, the phrase ‘like a freight train’ would be very high up on the list. But it still lacked a certain amount of detail.

Lung’s hand was larger than my head. It swept around at what would have been chest or throat height for Weaver. Razor talons led the way; in a blood and thunder novel, there would have been extensive descriptive phrasing regarding the way the metal claws split the air like a sword splitting silk. I don’t know about the air, but he certainly tried to split me into several unequal sections. Or rather, tried to split Taylor. I just got in the way.

The impact slammed into my abdomen, lifting me off my feet and sending me hurtling backward more than a few feet, before I landed, rolling. I thanked every messy impulse that had led people to drop their trash in this alleyway, right where I’d landed. Soft trash bags, so much nicer than concrete or asphalt. I wasn’t able to do much more than land and roll; my entire torso was a mass of pain, and there had been an ominous crunching sound, one that I felt with my whole body, as he hit me.

Ribs, I figured. Maybe sternum. From the feel of it, the stab vest had saved me from being eviscerated, but only just.

My rolling fall – no acrobatics there, just momentum – fetched me up against a brick wall with bruising force. It didn’t help that every time I rolled on to my back, I rolled over that damn carbine. I lay there, stunned, trying to figure which of the lights dancing around my head were real, and which were a result of blunt force trauma.

It was, I decided muzzily, a good idea to have Lung hit me instead of Taylor. Even if her armour proved capable of deflecting his claws – not something I’d like to field test – she would have hit the wall in a ballistic arc, and flexible armour is not good against solid impacts.

“C’cks’ck’r!” Lung bellowed, the flames around him intensifying by the second. “F’ck’n’ move!”

My vision cleared slightly, although I was having trouble doing more than breathing at the moment. Hell, I was having trouble breathing. I saw Taylor, crouching not more than two yards from him, unable to take a step without drawing his attention.

I thought to distract him, maybe give her a chance to get away. My pistol –

My feebly groping hand found nothing. His talons had torn away a large swathe of the jacket I was wearing. Under it had been my shoulder holster; the razor-tipped claws had caught on that and torn it clean off my body, along with slices of my sweater.

Not that the pistol would have done anything against him. But it would have provided sound cover for Weaver. And I was lying on the damn carbine; getting it out, even presuming it would still fire, would undoubtedly make too much noise.

I paused for a moment, trying to puzzle out why I cared about making noise in my attempt to make noise.

And then I saw Taylor reaching up under the armour panel that hung down over her spine. Coming out with a small dark object. I had no idea what it was. She poised herself, then threw it; the thing flew over Lung’s head, and plopped down softly in the garbage beyond. So softly did it land that I heard nothing, but Lung obviously did; he spun around and blew apart a dumpster with a massive fireball.

Weaver came up off the ground like a greyhound from the starting gate. She reached my side while Lung was still concentrating on the other direction, trying to lift me with all of her strength. There was no way she was going to lift me on her own, but she tried anyway. I didn’t have the breath to argue, so I helped her, forcing myself up, gritting my teeth against the agony that lanced through my torso whenever I moved.

It didn’t help that the fall from the fire escape had indeed been from above my safe falling distance, as my knee and ankle informed me; stabbing pains shot up and down my left leg as I got to my feet.

=//=//=​

Lung twigged, just as I got to my feet. We lurched out of the way as he sent a stream of fire our way; it set a line of garbage ablaze and melted a section of brickwork. Although we were well out of the way, I felt the hairs on my hands curling and crisping.

He corrected aim and blasted again, but Taylor half-lifted, half-dragged me around the corner just in time. The alley lit up like the noonday sun, and I felt fire curling around my trailing ankle. I pulled it to safety hastily, but my foot still felt uncomfortably warm. Later, I would find, the boot heel had been half melted off.

“Can you walk?” Taylor asked.

I nodded; in truth, I was bearing up quite well under what I figured was serious trauma to my ribs. The pain was bad, as was that from my leg, but I was able to stagger on. Which was a good thing, because Taylor let go my arm and ducked in behind a dumpster, leaving me to shamble on alone.

I did just that, lurching onward, like a particularly well-fed zombie, using the wall for support quite a lot, and trying hard not to think about the organic-looking stains. I had other things on my mind.

Lung came around the corner, feeling his way; I lurched on, aiming for a dumpster of my own. My left arm, of its own accord, slipped the sling of the M-1 off my shoulder.

“I c’n hear y’,” growled the scale-armoured draconic creature. “C’n’t run, c’n’t hide.”

I fell behind the dumpster, just as he sent another stream of fire down the alleyway. Garbage ignited, flickering sullenly. As the flame receded, I dragged myself more or less up on to my knees, using the butt of the M-1 as a prop. Leaning around the corner of the dumpster, I clicked the safety to Off. Smoke from the burning garbage filled the alley; blinking my eyes to clear them, I sighted on Lung. I waited till he’d taken two more strides, then loosed half a dozen rounds, rapid fire.

The carbine’s flat crack was very loud in my ears in the confined space of the alley; it jolted against my shoulder, but not hard enough to matter, even as the spent brass bounced off of my shoulder, and fell glinting into the trash.

My aim wasn’t that great, but then, he wasn’t that far away. I distinctly saw, or thought I saw, pinpricks of light as the rounds deflected from his metal-scaled torso. He stopped, apparently taken aback, and made an odd noise. A second later, as the ringing in my ears from the shots abated, I interpreted it as laughter.

“A gun?” he bellowed, then roared laughter again.

That was when Taylor ambushed him for the second time; she straightened from her hiding place next to the dumpster, just about where my fusillade had given him pause, and let off the screamer, about one yard from his right ear.

The shriek more or less deafened me, and I was close to a dozen yards away. And I didn’t have Lung’s enhanced hearing.

Lung bellowed and clawed at his ears, his head back, his mouth wide open. Taylor was already sprinting toward me, discarding the screamer, tossing something else into the air. Something that paused and changed direction in midair. Against the glare of Lung’s flaming aura, I saw tiny black specks surrounding it.

Weaver had definitely taken our chat to heart; unless I missed my guess, that was a net of spider-web, being carried by a swarm of bugs. Conveying what she had tossed back toward him.

What it was, I had no idea. Unless it was a live grenade, I couldn’t think of anything that would have much of an effect on him. Although blind, deaf and suffering from the venom of dozens of spiders, he was still horribly dangerous. He could still kill us both.

He began to inhale; his intention, I surmised, was to fill the alley with fire from side to side. Weaver was almost to me; I was struggling to my feet, trying to move away from the impending fiery explosion.

The bugs, with their burden, reached his wide open mouth. The webs went first, crisping in the furnace heat. The insects themselves died an instant later, snuffed out like so many candles. The object, small and cylindrical, flew in a perfect arc into his gaping maw. It survived just a few more instants before the tremendous heat ruptured the metal and plastic casing, releasing the contents.

It was the pepper spray container that she had used. More than half full, in fact.

Lung inhaled the lot.

=//=//=​

There was no all-destroying blast of flame. There was some fire, of course, but Lung was unable to maintain it, or make it reach as far. He fell to his knees, coughing and choking; even spitting out the melted remains of the canister did not do much to help him.

As we watched, he shrank in size; his flames died away. He clutched at his throat, struggling to breathe.

“Holy shit,” I groaned, trying to rest my weight mainly on my right leg. “You just took down Lung.”

“We took down Lung,” Weaver corrected me, but she sounded almost giddy with adrenaline. “But wasn’t I supposed to do that anyway?”

“You should have had help,” I told her. I couldn’t help wondering why the Undersiders had not shown. Bitch’s dogs would have made this a whole lot easier.

“Well, we did it anyways,” she told me, and held out her fist to be bumped. I bumped it; she’d earned it. “Should we go, or wait around for the authorities?”

“I would advise,” stated a voice from above us, “waiting for the authorities.”

=//=//=​

Taylor jumped; I would have done so as well, but doing so would have hurt. Instead, I leaned against the dumpster, safed the carbine, and slung it very carefully. Moving my right arm hurt. In fact, moving anything hurt.

The voice had sounded young and male; given the comment, I surmised that he was a hero. And as the shadowed form above did not show glowing red panels, that left two real choices. I picked the most obvious one.

“Aegis, I presume?” I asked.

He descended slowly toward the ground, moving so as to keep Lung in view while not losing sight of us.

“Aegis, yes,” he confirmed. “And you are …?”

“In pain,” I replied, perhaps a little flippantly, but I figured I was permitted. “Do you have medical equipment on the way? I suspect I’m going to need it.”

“Medical equipment is on the way,” Aegis told me, then turned to Taylor. “I don’t believe I’ve met you before.”

“I’m Weaver,” she told him, but her attention was mainly on me. “Should you be standing up?” she asked me. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“I’ll survive until a medic gets here,” I assured her. “And then I’ll probably collapse in a screaming heap.”

“So what’s your deal?” asked Aegis. “Hero or villain?”

“I’m a hero, not a villain,” Taylor informed him. “Lung was going to kill children. We stopped him.”

“Hm,” he observed. “I’ve never heard of you before.”

“That’s because this is her first night out,” I supplied. “And if you ask me, she did a bang-up job.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he observed, “but what was your name again?”

“Call Armsmaster,” I told him. “Tell him it’s Security. He’ll know who you mean. I’m her backup for the night.”

“Backup?” he asked.

I nodded. “Sure. You guys get the PRT, she gets me.” I paused. “Go ahead, call him. He’ll know the name.”

“Armsmaster’s busy tonight, sir,” he informed me. “But Miss Militia’s en route. You can speak with her.”

Busy, I realised. Right. I gave him a stack of information for dealing with Saint. Whee, butterflies.

“She’s here,” observed Taylor, just a moment before a PRT truck screeched to a halt at the end of the alleyway.

=//=//=​

It all began to happen after that. The PRT truck held a selection of soldiers in standard PRT gear, as well as two other capes. Miss Militia was one; Clockblocker was the other. Aegis called up a PRT medic to assist me, while others dealt with Lung.

I sat on the back steps of the truck, as the medic carefully removed my stab vest. He palpated my torso, causing me to hiss with pain, and grunted.

“Ribs are intact,” he informed me, “but you’ll have a bitchin’ set of bruises tomorrow.”

I shook my head. “They’re broken,” I insisted. “I felt them break.”

He tapped the discarded stab vest. “The ceramic plates took the impact. The right side’s busted all to hell and gone. That was what you felt breaking.”

I took a deep breath and winced; there was still pain, but somehow it felt less urgent, knowing that I didn’t have a shirtful of broken ribs.

“You must be the luckiest sonovabitch in the world,” he continued. “Going up against Lung with a Second World War carbine, and surviving.” He nodded to where the now-unloaded weapon leaned against the step.

I chuckled dryly, and winced again. “I was just the distraction. Weaver did all the work.”

“Weaver, huh?” he commented. “Your daughter? Or shouldn’t I be asking?”

I shook my head. “Friend of the family.” I looked over at where Taylor was chatting with Aegis and Clockblocker, and wondered what they were talking about.

=//=//=​

“So, this Security guy, he your dad or something?” asked Clockblocker.

Taylor shook her head slightly. “No comment,” she replied.

Aegis shook his own head more definitively. “Not cool, dude,” he chided the white-clad Ward. “Secret identities are secret for a reason.”

“What?” asked Clockblocker. “He’s not even wearing a mask.”

“Not a subject up for discussion,” Taylor said firmly.

“Okay,” agreed Aegis. “Why ‘Weaver’, then? What’s that about?”

“I control spiders to make them weave their webs the way I want,” Taylor explained.

“Just spiders?” asked Clockblocker.

Taylor shook her head. “Basically any bugs, really.”

“That sounds kind of cool,” Clockblocker observed. “If just a little creepy.”

“Mind demonstrating for us?” asked Aegis. “You can say no if you want.”

Taylor glanced over to where Mike was still being treated, and shook her head. “No, it’s fine.” She held out her hand and a passing dragonfly deposited a black widow on the palm.

“Holy crap, that’s –“ exclaimed Clockblocker.

Taylor nodded. “I know. It’s under my total control. All of my swarm is.” She made it spin a web, then run up and down that same web, spinning more strands and twisting it as it went, until it ended up with a length of cord a good foot long.

“When you say ‘swarm’,” Aegis began cautiously, “do you mean …”

“All the bugs in my range,” Taylor replied, handing him the cord. “Here, a souvenir.”

Aegis took the cord and tested it between his hands. “Hey, this is really strong,” he observed in some surprise. “What else can you make them do?”

Taylor held up her gloved hand and flexed it. “This,” she told them cheerfully.

She couldn’t see Clockblocker’s face, but the way Aegis’ jaw dropped was quite amusing.

“Your costume’s all spider silk?” asked the leader of the Wards.

Taylor nodded. “Took a while, but it’s worth it.”

“But how –“ began Clockblocker, but Taylor noted Mike beckoning to her.

“Sorry, I have to see what’s going on,” she told them, and moved over to where he was pulling his sweater back on, painfully slowly.

=//=//=
​

“What’s the matter?” she asked, perching up beside me and helping me pull the sweater down into place.

I nodded toward where two of the PRT men were carrying Lung out of the alleyway, strapped to a stretcher. The medic, having decided that I wasn’t hurt as badly as I had thought, was checking on the unconscious ABB cape. Miss Militia, having accompanied them down the alley, kept a close eye on Lung in case he was somehow faking it. The gun in her hand had a very large bore. In her left hand, she carried a piece of torn leather that looked somehow familiar.

“You might want to tell them exactly what you did to him,” I suggested quietly. “That way, if their sedatives have any adverse effects, they’ll know how to treat them.”

“Is that likely to be a problem?” she asked. “He’s a regenerator, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he has his limits,” I pointed out. “And if I know them, they pumped him full of sedatives right before they hit him with the antihistamines for the pepper spray in his lungs.”

“Right, right,” she said. Hopping up, she headed over to where they were bringing the stretcher our way. I climbed painfully to my feet – my leg felt better, but it would be also coming up in heavy bruising, and the medic had diagnosed a torn ligament as well as bruised ribs – and made way for them.

“- far more than the usual amount of venom, even from a single spider,” she was telling the medic as they came into earshot. “I didn’t know how much I needed to put him down, so I gave him the works. And even that nearly wasn’t enough.”

“So, black widows, brown recluses,” noted the medic, writing in a notepad. “What else?”

“Wasps, honeybees, yellowjackets, hornets, fire ants,” recited Taylor. “Long story short? Anything that can sting or bite, and can be found in Brockton Bay? Check him for it.”

“We’ll do that, and thanks,” noted the medic. “He’s a three-striker, and he’s probably Birdcage bound, but we do want to get him there alive.”

“Ah, about that,” I put in, limping forward. “Miss Militia, a moment of your time?”

The dark-skinned woman looked up, and moved in my direction.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah," I told her. "I had a Glock in a shoulder holster before he tore it off me. Is that ...?"

She nodded and handed it over; the straps were snapped clean, but the gun looked to be undamaged.

"Thanks," I said gratefully. "That would've come out of my pay."

“I understand we’ve got you and, uh, Weaver to thank for this,” she noted, indicating Lung’s unconscious form. The gun dissolved and reformed in her left hand, and she offered her right. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah, well,” I replied uncomfortably as I shook her hand. “Like I said, Weaver did most of the work.”

She nodded, unsurprised at my words. “I’ve been briefed on your interview with Armsmaster and the Director,” she said briskly. “I’m aware of your ... unusual circumstances.”

While her tone was polite, her body language indicated that she was a little dubious about some of what she had been told. And really, I didn’t blame her.

I nodded. “Well, I am a huge fan, but that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.” I took a deep breath. “You do know Lung’s recruited Bakuda from New York, right?”

She nodded. “I had heard.” Curiosity began to show in her eyes. “This is not common knowledge.”

I smiled slightly. “If Armsmaster briefed you on the interview, he would have told you that I know more than most people should, about many things.”

“He may have alluded to the subject,” she allowed cautiously.

"But you find it hard to believe," I observed. "Looking at me, I mean."

"I didn't say that," she protested, but her tone of voice wasn't entirely convincing.

"Oh, I don't blame you," I assured her. "I'm not all that impressive looking. Especially now. So, I guess I should show you my credentials, so to speak." I thought for a moment. “You’ve never told anyone this,” I went on in a conversational tone, “but you remember. And you’ve never met anyone else who does.”

It took her a moment to get my meaning, and then her eyes opened wide. “How did you –“ she began, then cut herself off, her eyes searching my face. I kept my expression bland.

“Suffice to say, I do know what I’m talking about,” I continued. “So, do I have your complete and total attention?”

“You do now,” she commented, somewhat dryly. “What is it that you wish to tell me about Bakuda?”

“She has bombs implanted in ABB rank and file, in their heads,” I told her quietly. “She’s also building bombs to work as hand grenades and grenade launcher ammo, so that ordinary mooks can use them. All kinds of effects.”

“Implanted bombs?” she reiterated. “In their own rank and file? Why?”

“Forcible recruitment,” I explained. “She can select which bomb using a heads-up display in her goggles, then triggers them using toe rings. Big toe and next toe over; she crosses her toes, the rings hit a certain contact, and the signal goes out.”

“Do you know which foot?” she asked tensely.

I thought back to the story; the narrative had never made it clear. “No,” I told her, “but if I find out, I’ll pass the information on.”

“In the meantime, I’ll just shoot at her feet,” she observed lightly. “Thank you for that; it’s invaluable data.”

I nodded. “She’s likely to launch a bombing campaign, with diversionary blasts, to cover her freeing Lung from being sent to the Birdcage. Between the fifteenth and the twenty-fifth, at a rough estimate.”

She froze, staring at me. “And that’s really important information,” she told me. “You’re certain of this?”

“As certain as I can be, without knowing what Thinkers are going to change matters,” I pointed out. “It might happen sooner; it probably won’t happen later.”

She shook her head. “Where are you getting your information from?” she asked.

I chuckled, and winced as my bruised ribs protested. “Did Armsmaster tell you what I said when he asked me that?”

She nodded. “That I wouldn’t believe you if you told me.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “Seriously, you really wouldn’t.”

“I find it hard to believe that I wouldn’t believe you, whatever you told me,” she observed.

“Believe it,” I advised her, deadpan.

She looked at me suspiciously, perhaps wondering if I were making a joke at her expense. I raised my eyebrows slightly. Her lips tightened, then relaxed in a wry grin.

"Okay, fine," she sighed. "I'll take you at your word. For now."

"Thanks," I replied. “So,” I added, indicating with a shrug the carbine slung over my shoulder. “Is there going to be a problem with me carrying this?”

She held out her hand; I unslung the carbine and handed it over to her. At the request of the medic, I had unloaded it, ejecting the round from the chamber afterward. I, personally, knew it was safe; she checked the breech anyway.

She studied it carefully, then looked at me quizzically. "You took on Lung with this?"

I was't sure if her tone denoted respect or disbelief.

"Wasn't my first option," I confessed. "More of an emergency, plan Z backup idea." I shrugged, and winced as my ribs protested. "Turned out it worked just fine as a distraction."

"So I see," she observed as she handed it back. I slung it over my shoulder again, carefully.

“Well, you haven’t used it in a crime,” she went on, “and you helped take down Lung with it. I’ve been told that our unofficial policy with you is hands-off until farther notice. So I’m not going to push the matter. Just don’t carry it down the street in broad daylight.”

"Not part of the plan," I assured her. She nodded in acknowledgement.

“Ma’am, we’re ready to go,” one of the soldiers reported to her. “We’d like to get him back to secure holding as quickly as possible.”

She nodded, then turned back to me. “Is there anything else you’d like to share before we go?”

I paused, thinking. “Not right this second, but I’ll be in contact.”

“Understood,” she replied, and turned to Taylor. “You’ve done good work tonight, Weaver,” she told the teen seriously. “I’d like you to think very seriously about joining the Wards. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me.”

Weaver nodded. “I’ll do that,” she agreed. She shook Miss Militia’s proffered hand, then watched as the older hero swung on board the truck. Clockblocker gave Weaver a high five, then climbed on board as well, as Aegis took to the air. We watched the truck drive away.

I turned to the slim costumed form at my side. “Well, partner, we’ve had an eventful night,” I told her. “Kicked some bad guy ass, and got to talk to some heroes.” I held out my fist; she bumped it. “Ready to head home?”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “School in the morning’s gonna be a killer.”

“Tell me about it,” I grumbled. “I’ve gotta be up at five thirty.”

“Ouch,” she sympathised, as we started back toward where we had left the pickup. “That’s gotta suck.”

“Eh,” I temporised. “I’ve had worse.”

I was already looking forward to the drive back, dropping Taylor at home, then heading back to my own place. My bed, soft and warm, was calling out to me.

But the night wasn't done with us yet.

=//=//=​

"You've gone quiet there," I observed after several moments had passed without a comment between us. "Something on your mind?"

"Aegis and Clockblocker were really nice to me," she told me. "And Miss Militia too. They treated me like a cape, like a hero. Like one of them. Not an outsider.”

"They did," I agreed. "They're good people."

She turned her head to look at me. "You say that like you know them personally."

"In a manner of speaking," I agreed.

"Ah," she responded. "The time travel thing." She paused. "Not really sure what to think about that, to be honest." Another pause, this one longer. "Do I die, between now and your time? Is that why you're being so nice to me? Do I die, saving the world?"

The apprehensive tone of her voice struck a chord in my heart. I shook my head emphatically. "No, you do not," I assured her. "You and your father are alive and well, after it's all over."

"Oh," she replied. "That's a relief, anyway."

"So, you were talking about Miss Militia and the Wards," I prompted.

"Oh, yeah," she recalled. "I just wanted to ask you ... well, you know how Miss Militia asked me if I wanted to join the Wards ...?"

"Yes?" I responded blandly.

"I was wondering if I should," she said, all in a rush. "I mean, they're nice, and they were interested in talking to me. To me! And it's like you were saying; I should learn to use my abilities better."

"And you can do that better in a teamwork situation, definitely," I agreed. "And yes, I think you'd do well in the Brockton Bay Wards." Especially now that Shadow Stalker's not there, I told myself.

"So you think I should?" she asked.

I rubbed my chin. "I'm not opposed to the idea," I told her. "But I think you should talk it over carefully with your father before you make up your mind."

"Sure," she agreed; I was certain a wide grin was stretching her mouth beneath her mask.

"And once you've spoken to him, and gone over all the pros and cons, then you're going to need to make up your own mind about this," I cautioned her. "It's a huge step to take, and you need to be absolutely certain in yourself before you commit. Because I won't be able to be there all the time to advise you, once you join."

"I know," she agreed soberly. Her hand found mine and squeezed it. "But I do want to thank you for what you've done for me, so far. For me and Dad."

Gently, I tugged my hand free and turned it into a fist-bump. "Hey," I said quietly. "You and your dad are good people. It is my genuine pleasure to help you out."

We walked a way farther in silence.

“Just one thing’s bothering me,” she observed as we approached the alley in which the pickup truck was waiting.

“What’s that?” I asked, although I was fairly certain that I knew.

“You said I’d get to meet some villains,” she told me. “And all I’ve met is heroes.”

“I’ve been wondering about that myself,” I agreed. “Something must have –“

The word ‘changed’ died on my lips as we turned the corner into the alleyway.

Taylor was going to meet the villains after all.

=//=//=​

Grue was leaning up against the bullbar of the pickup, arms folded, like he had all the time in the world. Beside him, the lighter Regent was actually perched up on the bullbar, his feet on the lower bar. Bitch stood foursquare beside them, her three dogs sitting in a row at her feet. Behind them, Tattletale stood in the open car door, one elbow resting on the roof and one on the door itself. She had obviously turned the internal light off so as to not alert us.

Beside me, Taylor tensed; I felt, rather than saw, the surrounding haze of bugs start to move in on us.

"You're here to talk, not fight," I stated, with a calm I did not feel. My words were aimed more at Taylor than at the villains; she relaxed, ever so slightly.

"Uh, yes," Grue replied. "We're -"

"- the Undersiders, I know," I told him. "You're Grue, that's Regent, Bitch with the dogs, and that's Tattletale who’s been poking through my car."

"You know us." It was a statement, not a question, and it came from Tattletale.

"I know of you, yes," I amended. "And I'm wondering why you didn't come to help out. You know we did you a solid."

Tattletale's gaze sharpened, and Grue's helmet came up.

"By the time we got here, it was all but over," the girl explained. "You had his butt pretty well kicked." She paused. "Wait, you did this on purpose?"

"Didn't want you dying," I commented off-handedly.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Weaver turn her head toward me. The four Undersiders were all staring at me, as if I had grown a second head.

"How did you know -" began Grue.

Tattletale overrode him. "Do you work for - no, you don't. You just did it to ... save us? What the hell? How did you know - no, that doesn't make any sense."

She fell silent, staring at me intently. Warily.

"You're just now realising that I know a lot more about you, about all of you, than you know about me, even after your little dig through my car," I observed. Behind her mask, I saw her blink. Uncertainty.

"Tattletale, what's this about?" asked Grue carefully. "Is he a cape?"

“No, not a cape,” she replied absently, still staring at me. “The girl is, though.”

“The girl’s name is Weaver, thanks,” Taylor cut in sharply. “So you’re the Undersiders? You’re villains, is that it?”

“Yeah,” retorted Regent. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“She just took down Lung and hardly broke a sweat,” I advised the teenage boy. “I’d be careful what you say to her. Just saying.”

“Yeah?” he answered. “Like what –“

“Shut up, Regent,” Tattletale and Grue spoke at the same time. He stared at them, then shut up, folding his arms.

“So what can you do, Weaver?” asked Grue, turning his helmeted head to look toward her.

“Bug control,” she replied.

Regent snorted. “Bug control. Wow. I’m shaking in my boots.”

Tattletale spoke cautiously. “Ignore him. How many bugs are we talking about?”

Taylor lifted her chin. “All of them,” she stated firmly. “Everything within two blocks. It’s mine to control.”

“Well, I think –“ began Regent, then stopped as Grue reached out and closed a large hand on the back of his neck, and squeezed.

“Regent,” he said almost gently, “I think you should be polite to the nice bug-controlling girl. The one who could cover us in hornets or black widows any time she felt like it. Just saying.”

There are nerve points on either side of the neck; jabbing one sharply is quite painful. Grue was obviously squeezing Regent’s neck on these points, because when he let go, the younger boy started rubbing his neck.

“Okay, geez,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean anything. Bug control’s a great power. Honest.”

“I think I preferred you being a dick,” Taylor observed. “You’re more honest that way.”

I thought I heard Grue chuckle inside the helmet, but I had other matters to attend to.

I looked over at Tattletale, who had not taken her eyes from me the whole time.

“Got a question for you,” I offered. “With a bit of a quid pro quo.”

She blinked again. “I’m listening.”

“You know the ABB is gunning for you, or at least Lung was, tonight.”

She nodded. “That’s true.”

“Well, Bakuda’s in town. Lung recruited her from New York.”

“Shit,” muttered Grue. “I’ve heard of her.”

“Is she all that bad?” asked Regent.

“She’d fit in just fine with the Slaughterhouse Nine,” I told him flatly.

“Fuck,” responded Grue and Regent at the same time.

“So,” I went on. “She’ll likely be coming after you, maybe sometime next week. You see an Asian person, someone with a scar up near the hairline on the back of the neck, chances are that poor bastard’s got a bomb in their brain.”

“Oh shit,” muttered Grue. “That’s fucking sick.”

“It’s all of that,” I agreed. “Now, Tattletale, here’s my question. She selects which person to blow up with a heads-up display in her goggles. She’s got toe-rings on, and she crosses her toes, big toe and next toe, to make the contacts touch and send out the detonate signal. Which foot has the toe-rings on it?”

“The left foot, duh,” she responded immediately.

I nodded. “Thank you,” I replied. “That may just save lives.”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Regent. “What the fuck is this? Why are we letting this guy tell us all this?” He looked me up and down. “You’re what, fifty? What do you know?”

“He’s forty-three,” Tattletale told him. “And he knows plenty.”

I sighed. “It always comes to this. I didn’t want to go there, but ... here we go. Those people who are most important to you.” I pointed at Grue. “Aisha.” At Tattletale. “Rex.” At Regent. “Cherie.” And at Bitch. “Rollo.”

Grue stepped forward; Regent hopped down from the bullbar. Bitch took a step forward as well, and her dogs came to their feet, growling. Beside me, Weaver tensed again.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” snarled Bitch. “You don’t get to use that name. You don’t get to say that name.”

“I meant no harm,” I replied to her, making direct eye contact, and stating the words forcefully and directly. “Rollo was important to you. Those other names were important to them. I was making a point, nothing more.”

I waited, hoping I was taking the right tack with her. I was taller, heavier than her. I wasn’t showing overt signs of aggression, but my direct gaze, my blunt tone, my straight talking, hopefully would defuse her anger.

She lowered her eyes, took a step back. “Yeah, well, don’t do it again,” she muttered.

“I won’t,” I answered, and looked at the others. “Satisfied?”

Tattletale stepped out from behind the car door, closed it, and moved forward to stand alongside Grue. “I was already satisfied,” she told me. “Grue?”

“I’m satisfied that he knows something,” the black-clad villain agreed.

“Good,” replied Tattletale. “Regent?”

The teenage boy shrugged. “Eh. I was never that close to her.”

“You were never that close to anyone in your family,” I pointed out.

“Fair point,” he agreed carelessly. “Yeah, I’m satisfied.”

“Okay,” I told them. “That was just for a demonstration. I have no desire to harm you. I’d much prefer you alive and well. I also prefer me alive and well, which is why I’m going to ask you to not tell anyone about this meeting.”

“Why should we do that for you?” asked Grue bluntly.

“Because we took Lung down for you,” I pointed out. “And one more thing. I did you a favour, two nights ago.”

“Yeah?” he asked. “What’d you do for me?”

I grinned slightly. “Shadow Stalker.”

“What about her?” His voice was wary.

“Awaiting trial for attempted murder,” I informed him.

“You’re shitting me,” he exclaimed.

I shook my head. “Check around. You’ll find I’m right.”

“We can definitely do that,” agreed Tattletale. She looked closely at me. “You’re not done with us, are you? There’s more that you want. What is it?”

I grinned at her. “I’ll tell you, the next time we meet.”

She stared at me. “You know when that’ll be. How do you know when that’ll be?”

“Trust me,” I told her, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I heard Weaver snicker beside me.

“Right,” she replied, still eyeing me. “Now you’re just giving me a headache.”

I shrugged, very carefully. “Sorry, but we’ve got to get going. I will talk to you later, though. Okay?”

Grue and Tattletale glanced at each other, and Tattletale shrugged.

“Okay,” Grue agreed. “We’ll talk later.”

“And no telling anyone,” I added.

“No telling anyone,” he repeated.

They stepped out of the way; I put the carbine behind the seat, and Weaver and I climbed into the pickup. I wound down the window and held my hand out, palm up. Tattletale dropped my spare keys into it.

“Sorry,” she said with a shrug and a grin. “Old habits.”

“No worries,” I told her. “I pretty well expected something of the sort.”

“And I’m still trying to figure you out.” She shook her head. “What the hell is it? How do you do it?”

I grinned as I put the key in the ignition. “Trade secret. And I’m giving you a unique experience.”

“What’s that?” she asked, unguardedly.

“How other people feel around you,” I told her cheerfully, and started the engine.

=//=//=​

We left them staring after us as I drove out of the alleyway. I got Taylor to get the map out and find where we were, and how to get back to her place.

After a while, she turned to me and said in a small voice, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” I asked.

“I should have been checking around,” she confessed. “I didn’t check the alley before we got to it.”

“Well, we got away with it this time, but maybe not the next time,” I agreed. “So yeah, lesson learned, hey?”

“Oh, definitely,” she agreed fervently. “Next left, I think.”

I took the next left.

“So,” I asked her after a little while longer. “You got to meet the villains. “What did you think?”

“They weren’t like Lung,” were her first words, then she thought more about it. “They were ... people. Like you and me.”

“More like you than me,” I commented. “I think Regent’s about your age.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But ... normal. Not ... evil.”

“Not really, no,” I concurred. “None of them got into crime for crime’s sake.”

“Do you know why they got into crime?” she asked curiously.

“Sure,” I told her cheerfully. “Grue’s trying to support his younger sister. Tattletale was more or less forced into it. Regent needs to get away from family issues, and Bitch never really had a choice.”

“Why was Tattletale staring at you?” she asked next.

I chuckled. “Her power is super-intuition. Anything that could possibly be a tell lights up like a neon sign for her. So she’s used to being the smartest person in the room. The one that knows everything.”

She began to giggle. “And you knew things that she didn’t, and she doesn’t know how you know it ...”

I nodded. “Exactly and precisely,” I praised her.

“What are the other guys’ powers?” she wanted to know.

So, as we wended our way back to the Hebert house, I expounded on the powers possessed by the Undersiders.

=//=//=​

The lights were still on when we arrived. Danny must have been just napping on the sofa, because by the time Taylor was on the sidewalk, he was opening the door and coming down the steps. I climbed much more carefully out of my side of the pickup, locking it as I did so, and walked around to greet him.

Taylor and Danny met in a bone-crushing hug that looked fair to go on for some time; I leaned against the bonnet of the pickup and waited for them to get it over with. Eventually, he let her go, and put his hands on her shoulders, looking her up and down.

“You’re okay?” he asked. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m really okay, Dad,” she confirmed. “Can we talk about it inside?”

“Sure,” he told her. “Sure.” Then he grabbed my right hand with both of his, and shook it. “Thank you, Mike.” His voice was thick with feeling. “Thank you for taking care of my girl.”

I grimaced. “She took care of me, more like,” I corrected him. “But yeah, inside is better.”

=//=//=​

Inside, Taylor made her excuses and trotted upstairs to change and freshen up. I sat at the kitchen table while Danny put the kettle on to boil.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“I don’t drink it,” I confessed. “Cocoa or cold water will do me just fine.”

He looked me over, frowning. “You look like you’ve really been in a fight,” he observed. “Are you all right?”

“Bumps, bruises, contusions, a pulled ligament,” I recited. “Nothing that won’t heal with time and care.”

“And Taylor’s really okay?” he asked me.

I nodded. “She kept it together. Even when things were going pear-shaped, she was planning ahead. She’s the one who won the fight.”

=//=//=​

I was sipping cocoa, and Danny had black tea on for Taylor, when she came downstairs, wearing her pyjamas and with her damp hair loosely pulled back in a ponytail.

“Wow, watch out,” I observed. “It’s Weaver, terror of the underworld.”

She stuck her tongue out at me, and went to pour a cup of tea. “I had to shower,” she confessed. “I sweated more than I thought in that costume.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you did,” I told her. “Nothing’s worse than stinky superhero.” That got me a chuckle from Danny, and a roll of the eyes from his daughter.

I could see my hand beginning to shake on the tabletop, and I put down the cup before my other hand spilled the drink.

“Are you all right?” Taylor asked, sitting beside me, as I looked down at my hand. It continued to shake, no matter how much I told it not to.

“I think it’s just really beginning to hit me,” I confided. “All of it. What we did tonight. How close I came to dying.” Both my hands were shaking now, and my voice had a quaver in it that I didn’t like.

“Adrenaline comedown,” Danny observed. “I’ve seen it before.” His voice was calm. “It’ll pass. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling my whole body shaking. “I – I know,” I told him. “It’s just – I can’t – I want to – stop it – can’t.” I felt tears welling in my eyes, knew it was from the reaction. But I didn’t want to let Taylor see, Taylor who saw me as her rock and her protector.

I heard a chair scrape closer, and it was Danny who put his arms around me, Danny who held me while I shook, while the tears flowed down my cheeks.

And then Taylor put her arms around both of us, and I felt the shudders begin to give way to the warmth that was being offered me, and ever so gradually, I began to relax and let it pass.

When it was over, I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, and no-one said a word.

=//=//=​

Half an hour later, I was ready to go home. We had gone over the events of the night; Danny was aghast to discover that Taylor had taken on Lung, but pleased that she had defeated him, with just a little assistance from me. Mainly as a decoy, I pointed out.

We talked over the idea of Taylor joining the Wards, and Danny was cautiously optimistic at the idea. I pointed out that the Wards tended to go to Arcadia, and so she would have friends in class there, if she joined. Danny definitely approved of that part of it.

Taylor also told him of the encounter with the Undersiders, mentioning that they were grateful about our defeat of Lung, but eliding over the rest. We had discussed the matter on the way back to the house, and had decided that Danny didn’t need to know about me being a time traveller quite yet.

I would tell him, I decided. He did deserve to know. It would just be at a time and place of my choosing.

By the time we were finished, Danny was yawning and Taylor could hardly keep her eyes open. I knew that I would not get much sleep, but anything was better than nothing, so I pushed the chair back from the table and stood up.

“Well, if I’m to make it to school tomorrow,” I pointed out, “I need to get back to my place.”

Danny nodded. “You’re not far wrong,” he agreed, with another jaw-cracking yawn.

Taylor rose and came around the table to me. “Hold still,” she ordered me, and then hugged me, very gently. I hugged her back; it was the only thing I could do.

“Now you go home and get some rest,” she told me firmly.

“Yes, boss,” I agreed with a chuckle.

They saw me to the door; I shook Danny’s hand again, and Taylor fist-bumped me. Then I walked out the door and down the steps, avoiding the bottom one.

=//=//=​

The drive home, without Taylor in the passenger seat to keep me awake, was almost interminable. I wound down the window to let the chill night air in, and took deep breaths; they made my ribs ache, but it kept me alert.

I made it all right, and pulled into my usual parking place. Before I went anywhere, however, I got out my maglite and shone it around the courtyard. I wasn’t going to get ambushed a second time.

Sure enough, between two cars, a scrawny figure was lurking. One arm was in a sling; the other held a switchblade. He stared at me as I shone the torch around some more. He didn’t seem to have brought backup this time.

The holdup artist started toward me, waving the knife. “Give me your –“ he began, then stopped as I pulled the Glock from the ruined shoulder holster. I wasn’t in the best of shape, but at five yards, he made a great target. I also wasn’t in the mood for this shit.

“We can do this one of two ways,” I told him, keeping the gun steady on target. “I can shoot you right now, or you can fuck off and I never see you again.”

It didn’t take him long to decide. The last I saw of him was his retreating rear profile, hastening out of the courtyard.

=//=//=​

No-one else jumped out at me as I struggled upstairs with my gear, which was good, because I probably would have shot someone. I had to work to put my key in the door, but eventually I managed. The door opened, and I stumbled inside. I locked it before I switched on the light.

That was when I turned around, and came face to face with a not-quite-familiar figure. Tall, hooded cloak, green glow coming from under the hood.

My tired brain was trying to process this when he spoke.

“We need to talk.”

“Ah,” I sighed, realising who this had to be. “Hello, Eidolon.”


End of Chapter Nine

 

Security!

Chapter Ten: (Tell Me Why) I Don’t Like Mondays


Brian took his helmet off and stared at Lisa.

"Okay," he began without preamble, "seriously, what the fuck?"

"Yeah," chimed in Alec, flopping on to the sofa, his mask in his hand. "Is it just me, or did that guy just out-Lisa Lisa?"

Lisa shook her head. "I don't know how he did it, guys," she confessed. "But he knew stuff. Stuff that he shouldn't have known. Stuff he shouldn't have been able to know."

Brian was at the fridge. "Beer?" he called over his shoulder..

"Sure," replied Alec.

"No thanks," demurred Lisa. "I want my head clear. I need to check some stuff out.". Her laptop was open and booting up as she spoke.

"Before you get into that, I want to talk about that guy," Brian insisted, handing a beer to Regent and twisting the top off of his. "What do you mean, stuff he shouldn't have been able to know?"

Lisa looked up at him. Her mask was off, but she hadn't wiped the black makeup off her eyelids yet. "I mean, he knew all about us, Brian. Everything. Your name, my name, Alec's real name, our backgrounds, the full details of our powers, the lot. Shit, he knew about Rex, and I've never told anyone about him."

“Never told anyone about Rollo either,” put in Rachel, from where she was grooming Brutus.

"Maybe he's investigated your backgrounds somehow?" suggested Brian. It wasn't often that he saw Lisa this rattled.

"My power says not," she replied. "I get the distinct impression that he's read some kind of intense in-depth dossier on us. One that I know for a fact does not exist."

"That doesn't make any sense," Alec protested.

Lisa shrugged. "It is what it is," she told him. "But I am going to be looking this guy up. I want to know what his sources are."

"Sucks not being the smartest person in the room, doesn't it?" jibed Alec.

Without looking, Lisa threw a cushion at him. It collided with his face, just as he took a drink of beer; he yelped as the cold beverage spilled over his chin and down his neck.

"One more thing," Brian asked. "Are you going to be telling the boss about him?"

Lisa considered the question seriously.

"On the one hand," Alec put in, dabbing at the spilled beer with his shirt, "you know he's gotta be interested."

"On the other," Brian added, "this guy helped out with Lung, he warned us about Bakuda, and there's that thing with Shadow Stalker. And he did ask us to keep it on the down-low."

Lisa nodded. "And I got the impression that him asking us to do that was as much for our benefit as for his."

"A threat?" asked Brian, wary now.

She shook her head. "More of a friendly warning. He wants us alive and well. He said so."

"So, we keep it between us for the time being?" Brian concluded.

"For the moment, yeah," agreed Lisa. She went back to the laptop, her fingers rippling over the keys. "Now, let's see who you really are, Mr Allen ..."

=///=​

"Ah," I sighed, realising who this had to be. "Hello, Eidolon."

"Michael Allen, if that's even your real name," he responded, his voice heavy, the words charged with some emotion that I couldn't analyse. Fear? Anger? "You've been spreading rumours about me. Damaging rumours. Rumours that could destroy all I've worked to build as a hero, and the Protectorate with me."

I dumped my gear on the couch - equipment belt, carbine, ripped shoulder holster, the lot - and turned to face him. "I spread no rumours," I corrected him. "Contessa wanted to know what I knew about Endbringers and how to stop them. I told her what I knew. I'm not responsible for what she says, and to whom."

Perhaps I wasn't being the most diplomatic, but this was the third night in a row that I'd had an uninvited visitor in my flat, all my injuries were throbbing in syncopation, and I really wanted a shower and bed. Why couldn't Cauldron sort their own damn messes out?

"What you told her was a total fabrication, a tissue of lies from end to end," he hissed, the green glass helmet giving his voice a faintly echoing quality. "Somehow you convinced her that it was true. You're going to tell her that it's all lies, that there's no truth in what you've told her."

I paused, trying to get my thoughts in order. "Look," I told him. "It's really simple -"

I hadn't seen the dark-clad form in the unlit kitchen, until a blur of motion clued me in on her presence. All of a sudden, my face was being pressed hard against the wall, with both arms wrenched painfully up behind my back.

"Ow," I managed, the word slurred somewhat, due my face being mashed up against the wall. "Awexandwia, I pwesu'e."

"You will retract your statements," the leader of the Los Angeles Protectorate told me bluntly. "Contessa wants you alive, but there are many gradations between unhurt and dead." Her grip on my arms was iron-hard, and about as yielding.

"Wook," I managed. "C'n we ..."

I trailed off, and she took the hint, allowing me to lift my face away from the wall and talk normally. She didn't loosen her grip on my arms, though. And my ribs were killing me.

"Talk," she ordered me.

"Can we just sit down and discuss this like rational people?" I asked plaintively. "I'm not a cape. It's not like I'm going to overpower the two of you.'

There was a long pause, during which time I wondered if my arms would even work right again, or if my shoulders would be double-jointed for the rest of my life.

Abruptly, the pressure on my arms released, and I shook my shoulders into some sort of shape. Alexandria pointed at the kitchen table. "Sit," she ordered. "Talk, and make it good.'

I pulled out a chair, and sat down, then pointedly waited till they also sat. I had a container of cookies on the table; opening this, I offered it around. When both of them declined, I shrugged and took one myself.

"We're waiting," snapped Alexandria sharply. Here was a woman who could level buildings. One did not keep her waiting lightly.

"Okay," I told her, having taken the time to gather my thoughts. "First off, do you need convincing that I know what I'm talking about, or are you willing to take what I say at face value?"

"What?" demanded Eidolon. "We're talking about you retracting your statement to Contessa, not how true it is."

"No," I told him with as much firmness as I could muster, "we're talking about fixing this mess and stopping the Endbringers once and for all."

The following silence was broken only by the crunching noises as I ate the cookie. They both stared at me; if I hadn't already faced Lung that night, I would have been a lot more scared; as it was, my adrenals were on holiday.

Alexandria's voice was a hiss. "Explain."

"Okay," I agreed. "But first, I have to be sure you're ready to believe what I've got to say. That I know what I'm talking about. You especially." I nodded to Eidolon.

He shook his head. "I've heard nothing to convince me anything of the sort. Your statement is ..."

"For fuck's sake, David, enough about the statement," I expostulated. "You met Doctor Mother in May of nineteen eighty-six. You were wheelchair-bound, and had applied to the Army but been turned down. You'd tried to slash your wrists, but failed there too. How am I doing?"

Leaving him gaping at me, I turned to Alexandria. "Library of Alexandria, real name Rebecca Costa-Brown, Chief Director of the PRT," I stated crisply. "You were in your teens, in the final stages of cancer, in a hospital in Los Angeles. You were sick and tired of being seen as the brave one, but you just couldn't drop the facade. And then Doctor Mother made you an offer you couldn't refuse."

I put my hands on the table and leaned back. "Now are you willing to believe that I know what I'm talking about?" I asked.

The double-barrelled stare had not abated; if anything, it had intensified.

"If you reveal one word -" began Alexandria.

I cut her off. "Seriously, enough with the threats. I know you could both kill me, or maim me, in ways subtle and horrifying. Let's not go there. We're working toward the same goal, here. Saving the fucking world."

I took a deep breath. "Eidolon, I need to tell you something, and I need your full attention." I fixed my gaze on the hooded man. "Do I have it?"

He nodded reluctantly. "You have it."

I felt cautious relief. They were listening. At least for the moment.

"Okay, one; a general statement. Assume that I know everything significant about Cauldron. I'm not going to blow the whistle; it's up to you to start making plans to dismantle it, rehabilitating the Case fifty-threes, restoring the ones you can to a normal life, once golden boy is dead and gone."

I looked from frozen stare to frozen stare.

"Two," I went on. "Eidolon. Your powers have been waning. You've been seeking high-end conflict, getting booster shots from Doctor Mother. Hasn't been doing a damn bit of good. That's because you've been going about it all wrong."

"I find it hard to believe -" began Eidolon.

"That I know more about this stuff than all your experts?" I chuckled; there was no humour in it. "I know shit you wouldn't fucking believe. Stuff that would turn your whole world-view inside out. Alexandria's good at cold-reading people; she can tell you I'm not exaggerating."

Alexandria made no comment; I went on.

"Where you're going wrong is that you're drawing from the wrong power pool. What you're tapped into, as far as I can tell, is all the dead ... agents, I think you call 'em. The whatsits that actually connect to the corona pollentia and give people powers. There's basically dead ones out there, or disconnected ones. Agents that have never connected to a person, or were left behind when a cape died."

I was free-associating now, but it sounded good.

"Anyway," I went on. "You're missing a trick. The dead ones? They're why your powers are running down. You need to plug into wall power, get a shot of the live juice."

"Start making sense sometime," he growled.

"Sure," I told him. "What I just said? Quite possibly the purest bullshit. But essentially true. What you've got to do is let go. Make a leap of faith. You generally concentrate on fight or flight powers, ones for offence or defence, right?"

"... essentially correct," he conceded.

"So let 'em all go," I advised him. "Reach for mental powers. There’s one out there that’ll let you detect the powers that capes around you have on them. And once you've got that one, reach for the one that lets you tap into those powers."

He stared at me. "And that's it?" he asked blankly. "That's the solution to everything?"

"Well, there's more to it than that," I told him. "Once you realise your powers are back up to pre-decline levels, you'll have no conscious need for conflict. You know Jessica Yamada, of course?"

He nodded in agreement. "I've spoken to her in the past."

"See her. Soon. Tell her everything; the link with the Endbringers, the lot. Tell her that you need to come to peace with yourself, that you need to stop seeking conflict, even subconsciously. Tell her you've got a month to get it right."

"A ... month?" repeated Alexandria.

I nodded. "You may have gotten the report. Leviathan is due to hit Brockton Bay on May the fifteenth."

She nodded. "It crossed my desk.” Her gaze sharpened on mine, as the penny finally dropped. “You're ... Security?"

"The same," I acknowledged. "Now, it might not actually happen. I have another iron in the fire, one that might deflect him elsewhere. But if you can get your head together, it might just stop the Endbringers from attacking anywhere ever again."

Eidolon stared at me. "But ... how do you know when and where Leviathan is even due to strike?"

I noted that he wasn't professing disbelief any more, and grinned. "I'd tell you, but that would just start another argument. Let's just leave it that I know stuff."

Pushing back my chair, I rose painfully. "Well, I've told you what I know. It's up to you now."

Both heroes rose at the same time. "If it turns out you've lied to me ..." began Eidolon.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," I told him. "Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It'll work. If you do it right. Then it's up to you to get your head together."

His tone was suddenly uncertain. "But ... if this is all true ... I'm responsible for ..."

"Bullshit!" I snapped, loudly enough to make him jump. "Your powers did it, not you. Mrs Yamada will tell you the exact same damn thing." I flapped my hands at them. "Now get out of here. Go save a cat in a tree or something. I'm tired and I'm hurting and I need to get some sleep."

"I had noticed your injuries," Alexandria commented; her tone was much less confrontational than before. "What happened?"

I leaned on the chair for a moment. "Lung happened," I told her. "And a mugger. No biggie. I'll survive."

"You took on Lung," Eidolon's voice was flat. "And you survived."

"I had a cape with me," I stated. "She did all the hard work. I'm just bruised, is all."

"Hm," replied Eidolon. A green glow began to build up around his left hand. "Well, as you would probably remind us, we are heroes, and we have a responsibility to help people." The glow left his hand, drifted over to me, sank into my chest. I watched with a certain amount of detachment; this was the first time that an actual, real, super-power had been used on me. As opposed to super-strength, Tinker gadgets, or flame.

"What's that do?" I asked.

"It will grant you restful sleep, and heal your wounds," he told me. "In the meantime ... I will try what you've told me. See how it goes."

I tried to ignore the weird tingling in my chest. "Do, or do not, young Skywalker," I misquoted. "There is no 'try'."

Alexandria shot me an extremely dry look. "Door," she said out loud. Without fuss, a portal opened in midair. On the other side was the gleaming white corridor of Cauldron. "We'll be in touch."

Without further ado, they both stepped through the hole in space-time.

"I look forward to it," I replied, but the portal had already closed.

With a sigh, I put my gear away, showered briefly, and went to bed.

Another day, another flock of butterflies.

I dreamed of home.

=///=​

Emily Piggot was convened in her office with Armsmaster and Miss Militia. The doors were locked, the shutters closed, and a discordant buzz filled the air.

"I look forward to it," they each heard, in a voice they all recognised. The Director shut off the playback and looked at the two capes.

"Normally, you wouldn't even be hearing of this," she told them frankly, "but until I can be sure of everyone on the PRT side of things, you two are about the only ones I feel I can trust. You're also the only other two people I can call on regarding Michael Allen, the only two who have encountered him in the field."

Miss Militia looked back at the Director. "What do you want from us?" she ventured.

"Your thoughts," Piggot told her brusquely. "On what you've just heard."

"Honestly?" asked the dark-skinned woman. "I think it's above my pay grade. Reading between the lines ..." she trailed off.

"Reading between the lines," Armsmaster put in, "it sounds as though Alexandria is using her civilian identity to run the PRT, in violation of the same regulations that she helped to write. It sounds as though Eidolon is in some way responsible for the Endbingers, though he either didn't know it, or didn’t want to know it. And it sounds as though they're both in collusion with this mysterious Cauldron, and someone called Contessa, and someone else with the unlikely name of Doctor Mother."

Emily Piggot drew a deep breath. "I concur with all of those conclusions," she agreed. "Just as I concur with Miss Militia's conclusion. This is far above our pay grade."

"So we just ... bury it?" Armsmaster's voice was disbelieving. "It never happened?"

Piggot shook her head. "No. But we don't speak of it, either. We watch, and we listen, and we gather data. We don't have nearly enough to go on with at the moment. So we build our case. And when the time comes ... we use it."

Miss Militia nodded, but Armsmaster was frowning.

The Director looked at him. "Is there a problem, Armsmaster?"

"Not a problem, exactly, Director," he confessed. "Just ... Alexandria's doing a competent job as Director Costa-Brown. And she's a celebrated hero in her own right. Do we really have to bring her down, out her, drag the name of the PRT and the Protectorate in the mud, just because she's breaking a few rules, and doing a good job in the meantime?"

Director Emily Piggot rose to her feet, and looked him right in the eye, or at his opaque visor, which was the closest she could come to doing so.

"Armsmaster," she snapped, with the steel of command in her voice. "When regulations say that a cape may lead the Parahuman Response Teams, then it will be perfectly okay for her to do so. Until that day, we will treat it as a violation of those same regulations. Is. That. Understood?"

Armsmaster braced to attention, quite possibly not even aware that he was doing so. "Yes, Director!" he barked.

Piggot sat down again. "Good," she acknowledged. "But we'll keep it quiet until we have more to go on with.". She looked over at Armsmaster. "While I have you here, what's the status on the Saint investigation?"

Armsmaster, apparently relieved at the change of subject, relaxed slightly. "It's going well, Director," he reported. "The data Security supplied led us right to his accomplices. The woman – Margaret Pellick – apparently purchased the property in Toronto under her maiden name. There's some activity on site, but it's hard to run a full operation without Dragon finding out. Covert surveillance should be in place in the next few days."

The Director nodded, pleased. "Excellent work."

"Talking about covert surveillance," put in Miss Militia, "are the listening devices you've had put into Mr Allen's residence entirely ... legal?"

Director Piggot looked uncomfortable. "Only via a certain interpretation of 'legal'," she admitted. "He knows things that he shouldn't; this makes me very uncomfortable. In short, we're investigating a potential security leak."

"If he makes you so uncomfortable, why not just recruit him?" suggested Miss Militia.

Armsmaster snorted. "Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "Him, in the PRT? He's -"

"Old? Fat? Unfit?" interrupted Director Piggot caustically. "Careful, Armsmaster. I'm all of that."

"I didn't mean -" began Armsmaster hastily.

"Of course you didn't," agreed Piggot, in a tone which meant, 'of course you did'. "No, for the moment, it's hands-off. As it is, he's offered us some rather useful data, and indications are that we'll get more when he decides it's time. If he gets outed, then we offer him recruitment for his own protection, of course. But failing that, we leave him alone."

She looked at the two capes. "If there's no further business?"

Armsmaster shook his head; Miss Militia likewise indicated negation. Director Piggot reached over to the large red button and pressed it, allowing it to click back into its normal position. The discordant hum ceased, and the shutters rattled back to allow sunlight in once more.

"Thank you for attending this test," she addressed them out loud, just in case someone was actually listening. "Dismissed."

As the doors closed behind them, Emily Piggot leaned back in her chair and massaged her temples. Life was so much simpler before Security showed on the scene, she thought ruefully.

Removing the thumb drive with the incriminating conversation on it from the computer, she put it in her pocket. Only then did she turn the modem on. It didn't take long before alerts started popping up on her screen.

With a sigh, she took hold of the mouse and started clicking on action items.

From here on in, it would be just another Monday morning at work.

=///=​

I stood on the steps of Winslow High School. Freshly shaved, beard neatly trimmed, my uniform ironed, I had even taken the time to polish my boots. Arms folded before me, sunglasses hiding my eyes from the early morning glare, I watched the incoming students.

A good many of these had seen me on the Friday; many of those who had not, had been told of me by their friends. Having a security guard stationed at Winslow was apparently no small matter. Those few of them that had neither seen me nor heard of me were eyeing me curiously as they entered the school.

Taylor, having gotten off the bus, trotted up the steps not far from me. She flashed me a sudden grin; I nodded back, deadpan. Then she was past me and inside, looking much more animated than the first time I had met her, three days ago.

“Mr Allen?”

I looked down the steps toward where one of the parents stood. I did not recognise the pretty brunette, but the redheaded girl next to her was entirely familiar to me.

Descending the steps, I looked the brunette over. If Emma had gotten her hair from her father, she had definitely gotten her figure and her looks from her mother. This would be ...

“I’m Zoe Barnes,” she introduced herself, offering her hand.

I shook it carefully. “Michael Allen,” I replied. “Thanks for dropping Emma off. Her father’s not here today?”

She shrugged slightly. “He had to go into the office early.”

I just bet he did. “Well, that’s fine. I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Barnes.”

She smiled, flipping her hair in a way I had seen Emma do once. She did it much better than Emma. “Oh, you make me feel old. Please, call me Zoe.”

I nodded slightly. “If you insist, Zoe.” I paused. “Was there something else?”

“Actually, yes,” she told me, stepping closer to me. I caught a whiff of her perfume, and a look down her blouse that suggested that she considered underwear to be an optional extra. “I’m concerned at the harshness of the punishment that Emma’s been given. It was just a silly little prank, wasn’t it? Really, I mean?”

Her voice was soft, low, throaty. It promised much, if I’d just agree with her. I didn’t know whether the promise was an empty one, or whether she was willing to make an assignation with a lowly security guard to get her daughter easier treatment; given her husband’s profession, I rather suspected the former. Either way, I wasn’t buying.

“You weren’t here for the meeting, Zoe, so you didn’t hear all the details, obviously,” I told her bluntly. “Your daughter deliberately held a toilet stall shut so that Emma’s two friends could pour juice and soda over the walls on either side on to Taylor, ruining her clothes and backpack, and damaging the books in her pack. Hardly a ‘silly little prank’. Hundreds of dollars worth of damage, not to mention the mental trauma of such an act.”

She blinked, taken aback by my words and my apparent immunity to her charms.

I wasn’t finished. “And it’s not just one little prank either. Taylor has verbally testified to events like this having happened basically every day since they started high school. She has written evidence of such things dating back to September of last year.”

I took a deep breath. “Your daughter, in other words, has been carrying out a directed, malicious campaign of bullying against her former best friend for the last eighteen months. Taylor’s locker has been vandalised or broken into no less than four times. A flute belonging to Annette Hebert, given to Taylor after her death, was stolen from the locker, and destroyed by Emma’s direct suggestion.”

As my words sank in, she turned to look at her daughter. Gone was the seductress. Now, she was all business.

“Emma,” she asked flatly. “Is this true?”

Emma was staring at me, eyes wide. I guessed it was the mention of the flute that got her. “Oh yeah,” I told her, entirely untruthfully. “She sold you out.”

“But it was Sophia who stole it in the first place, and destroyed it!” she burst out. “I never touched it!”

“Really,” I observed.

Emma’s eyes turned to her mother’s face. Zoe Barnes looked from Emma to me and back again. “Emma Barnes,” she said softly. “I’m going to ask you one more time. Is all this true?”

Instead of answering, Emma pointed at me. “Don’t say anything around him,” she told her mother. “He records everything!”

Zoe looked at me, her eyebrow raising. “Do you really?” she asked.

For an answer, I pulled out the digital recorder, the tiny light glowing brilliant red. “As a matter of fact, yes,” I informed her. “Would you be interested in listening to the fascinating recording of what Emma said when I caught her and the others bullying Taylor in the bathroom?”

“I believe that I would,” Zoe Barnes told me, looking intently at Emma, who wilted before her gaze.

“I’ll see about getting it to you, then,” I noted. “In the meantime, I see that the Clements’ are here, which means that it’s time to take these two young ladies inside.”

She nodded. “Thank you for laying the facts out for me, Mr Allen,” she replied. “I won’t be bothering you any more.” She turned to Emma. “We will be having words when you get home tonight, young lady. Anne-Rose was one of my best friends before she died. Destroying her property like that ... I’m ashamed of you.”

She turned on her heel and walked off, passing Madison Clements and her parents.

“Morning,” I greeted them, with a nod.

“Good morning, Mr Allen,” Madison’s father replied. “We can pick her up at three thirty?”

“End of the school day, yes,” I agreed. “I’ll be waiting out front with them.”

He nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. “Let me know if she gives you any trouble.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assured him.

He reached out his hand; I shook it. Then he and his wife, who hadn’t said a word, walked away.

I turned to the two teenage girls. “Let’s get you inside,” I told them.

=///=​

“The rules are simple,” I stated, as we entered the empty classroom which had been set aside for them. “You do not leave this classroom unless escorted by a teacher. You do not communicate with other students. You can talk to each other, so long as you keep it down. You may read books, do homework, or study. You are not allowed access to school computers. You are not allowed the use of phones, electronic tablets, or any other electronic device that can be used for entertainment.” I held out my hand. “So give.”

“Give what?” asked Emma, playing dumb.

“Any phones, MP3 players, tablets, or anything else that you might have in your pockets or bags. They will go on the desk, and you can reclaim them at the end of the day.”

“Fuck off! I’m not giving you my phone!” she exclaimed.

“So you’re refusing to abide by the terms of the suspension?” I asked mildly.

The words hung in the air, until she suddenly clicked.

“Here!” she snarled, pulling it from her pocket and slapping it into my palm.

“Thank you, Emma,” I replied politely. “Madison?”

The petite brunette was already pulling it out of her backpack. “Here you are, Mr Allen,” she offered in a subdued tone of voice.

“And thank you, Madison.” I took them up to the desk at the head of the room. “Take a seat anywhere, ladies. I’m going to sit here with you until home room is over, and your first period teacher arrives to take over. These phones will sit here on this desk. They will remain turned off. You may get access to them during lunch hour. It’s as simple as that.”

Sullenly, Emma plumped herself down at a desk; Madison sat beside her. I sat in the teacher’s chair and leaned back, relaxing.

“Mr Allen,” Madison spoke up, “can I ask you a question?”

I chose not to point out that she just had, and nodded. “Fire away, Madison.”

“Where’s Sophia?” she asked me. “Why isn’t she here?”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very good question.” I paused, formulating the answer. “She was angry at being caught out on Friday,” I told them. “On Friday night, she came to my address, and attempted to ... assault me. I subdued her, and she was arrested and taken into custody. She’s currently awaiting trial.”

I watched the girls’ faces as what I had said sank in. Madison looked vaguely confused. Emma’s face went from puzzled to horrified as she realised what I was really saying. I looked at her mildly. “I presume you didn’t know she was going to do this, Emma?”

She shook her head violently, her face pale. “No, Mr Allen, I didn’t. You have to believe me!”

I chuckled. “It’s fine, Emma. I believe you. This time.”

She sagged back in her chair, looking honestly relieved. Madison looked at her curiously, but did not ask.

=///=​

My relief for the first period was a male teacher. I recognised him from Friday, but did not recall his name. It didn’t matter to me; I nodded to him, pointed out the phones on the desk, and made way for him to sit down. As I left, he was texting on the phone he’d pulled out of his own pocket. Anything to keep from being bored, I guess.

I roamed the first and second floors of the school, making sure all was in its place; however, at the end of the first period, I ensured that I was close to Gladly’s classroom. This was another turning point in the story; in canon, she had been taunted by the other girls, egged on by Emma and her crew, and had ended up leaving the school more or less in tears. This had led her to go and meet the Undersiders for the second time. I was interested in seeing how it went this time.

=///=​

As everyone gathered their things and began to file out, Mr. Gladly approached Taylor and quietly said, “I’d like you to stick around for a few minutes, please.”

She just nodded and put her books away, then waited for the teacher to finish negotiating where to meet the prize winners from the class contest so he could pay for their prizes.

If Greg and Sparky had done even one-tenth of the work that she had done, she would have been in that group. Oh well, she decided. Can’t win everything.

When it was just Taylor and Mr. Gladly in the classroom, he cleared his throat and then told her, “I’d like to talk to you about what happened on Friday.”

“Okay,” she replied, not sure how to respond.

“I’ve known for some time that some people have been giving you a hard time in this class.”

Not any more, she thought, though that wasn’t strictly true. She’d caught Julia and a couple of others giving her poisonous glares when Mr Gladly wasn’t looking. But with Mike on her side, with her new career as a superhero, with the fact that she’d beaten Lung last night ... a few nasty glances weren’t going to even begin to cut it.

“It’s been known to happen,” she agreed. “But Madison was the main ringleader. I don’t think it’s going to be a problem any more.”

Mr Gladly looked uncomfortable. Good. “If anything like that happens again, I want you to know that I’ll be there to support you, make sure that it gets dealt with accordingly, all right, Taylor?”

She nodded. His words sounded nice, but she’d had those assurances before. It was only once Mike Allen turned up that the assurances had started to actually become reality. She seriously doubted that Mr Gladly had anything whatsoever to do with that. But what the hell, give him the benefit of the doubt just this once. “Sure,” she said. “I’ve got to get to my next class.”

“Okay, Taylor,” he replied, with a relieved smile. “See you tomorrow.”

She stepped out of the classroom and was immediately surrounded by girls. This was amazingly familiar, only the main three were nowhere to be seen. Half a dozen girls, led by Julia, pushed and shoved her back into a corner.

Taylor didn’t get angry, didn’t get upset. She did exactly what she’d planned to do in this instance, and she readied herself.

“Please step aside,” she stated clearly.

They ignored her, of course. The usual taunts started up; none spoken directly to her, but all aimed at her. Julia led the pack.

“Nobody likes her. Nobody wants her here.”

“Julia, I need to get to my next class,” Taylor addressed the other girl. “You’re in my way. Please step aside.”

“Are you talking to me, Taylor?” Julia affected surprise. “I didn’t notice you there, you’re so skinny.”

“Except for the smell,” another girl added. “She stinks so badly. She really should shower.”

"Ugliest girl in our grade.”

Taylor saw Mr Gladly exit the classroom; he turned to lock it, then saw her and the other girls. She watched him, curious as to what he would do.

“If I were her, I’d kill myself.”

He looked her in the eyes.

The girl’s voice was clearly audible. “So glad we don’t have gym with her. Can you imagine seeing her in the locker room? Gag me with a spoon.”

And then he turned and walked away.

So that’s how it is. Maybe I should have waved my arms and put up smoke signals.

And then she saw Mike turn the corner, and accost Mr Gladly. She couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face.

Julia saw it, and frowned. “What’s that smile for? Are you trying not to cry? Cry yourself to sleep for a straight week?”

Taylor’s eyes snapped to Julia then, and she said firmly, “Move aside, or I will move you aside.”

As she stepped forward, Julia put her hand up to shove Taylor back into her place. Taylor trapped her wrist, turned her arm, and put her into a perfect arm-bar.

Julia went to her knees almost immediately; Taylor supposed that she was using a little more than absolutely necessary force. For some reason, this didn’t seem to bother her.

“Ow, fuck, ow, ow, ow!”

=///=​

I turned the corner, and there they were. Six girls, lacking of course the core three, but carrying on without them. Almost admirable in their loyalty. Almost.

They had Taylor backed into the corner, as had happened in the story. But her expression was almost serene. She was prepared for this.

Gladly was moving my way, eyes fixed ahead of him. Ignoring what was happening behind.

“Hey.” I moved in front of him. “Gladly. Look behind you.”

“Sorry, I’m in a hurry,” he muttered, trying to duck around me. I’m fairly wide; this is not easily accomplished if I don’t want it to happen.

“Gladly,” I repeated. “Look. Behind you. Bullying at six o’clock.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “They’re just talking to her.”

“They’ve got her trapped in a corner, Gladly. Want to hear what they’re saying to her?”

“I can’t hear anything,” he told me.

“Ow, fuck, ow, ow, ow!” The girl’s pained cry echoed down the corridor.

“Really?” I asked cheerfully.

Gladly finally turned around, to see Taylor holding Julia on her knees with an arm bar; the other girls had stepped back, watching wide-eyed as Taylor effortlessly kept Julia in place.

“Shall we go and see what’s happening?” I enquired mildly. I was already on my way; Gladly caught up with a few running steps.

“Taylor, what are you doing?” he demanded as we approached the group. “Let go of Julia immediately!”

She ignored him, and looked at me; I nodded fractionally. She released Julia and stepped back; the heavier girl rose, rubbing her arm. “She tried to break my arm!”

“No, she didn’t,” I countered. “I taught her that hold, and from where I’m standing, she applied it perfectly.” Taylor beamed.

“She grabbed me for no reason!” insisted Julia. “We were just talking!”

“Really?” I asked. “Taylor?”

Grinning even wider, she reached into her pocket and handed me the digital recorder. I examined it; it appeared that her father had picked a good one out for her. “This is Michael Allen." I gave the time. "I’m going to end this recording, so that I can take this to the principal.” Then I turned off the recorder, slipped out the recording card, and replaced it with a blank one of my own.

“Here you go, Taylor,” I told her, handing it back. “Nicely done.”

“Thank you, Mr Allen,” she replied politely. “Now I really have to rush, or I’ll be late for class.”

She trotted off; the girls were staring, and some were starting to sidle off as well. “Not so fast,” I snapped. “You are all coming to the principal’s office with me. You too, Gladly. You’re a witness.”

He looked from me to the girls and back again, but could not find a reason to refuse.

=///=​

Principal Blackwell looked up with an expression of disfavour as I led the cavalcade into her office.

“Is this going to be a regular thing with you, Mr Allen?” she asked tartly.

“So long as bullying keeps happening in front of me, yes,” I cheerfully agreed.

Her face took on an extra sour expression at that, and then she sighed and looked at the six girls. “So, what happened?” she asked.

All six girls burst out in their separate expressions of innocence. She bore it for about fifteen seconds, then turned to me. “Mr Allen?”

I held up the recording card. “Taylor Hebert, on my advice, now owns a digital recorder.” I slotted it into my recorder, and pressed Play.

The ‘conversation’ played out, with interjections by Taylor, asking to be allowed to pass, shouted down or ignored by the girls. At one point, I stopped the playback. The girls were looking stricken. “Did you hear that?” I asked the principal.

“What was I supposed to hear?” she asked blankly.

I ran it back a few seconds.

“Ugliest girl in our grade,” came out of the speaker. Then a tiny, but distinct, click.

“That click,” I clarified, stopping the recording again.

Principal Blackwell furrowed her brow. “I don’t get it ...” she mused. “What is it?”

“Mr Gladly here, locking the classroom door, five feet away from the action,” I said bluntly. The aforementioned Mr Gladly immediately went several shades paler.

I pressed the Play button again, and the action went on. Clearly spoken insults, as would have been well within his hearing. And then Taylor warning Julia to step aside or she would be moved aside. This was, of course, followed by Julia’s agonised cries.

“What was that?” gasped Principal Blackwell.

I smiled slightly. “Taylor Hebert applying an arm bar to Julia, in order to move her out of the way. She had, after all, been warned. Three times.”

Principal Blackwell shook her head. “We can’t abide fighting in the school.”

“Taylor wasn’t fighting,” I told her firmly. “It was a technique specifically designed to stop a fight. Six girls had her crowded into a corner, taunting her with insults. How was she supposed to get out of the corner? Asking clearly had not worked.”

She stared at me, defeated. “So what do you suggest?” she asked.

“You’re the principal,” I reminded her. “You have six bullies here, and clear audio evidence of their crime. It’s your jurisdiction.” I paused. “But wait one second.”

I ran the recording back one more time.

“What’s that smile for? Are you trying not to cry? Cry yourself to sleep for a straight week?”

“Ah,” I said. “Whose voice was that? Yours?” I pointed at Julia.

“Uh, yes?” she admitted; she could hardly deny it.

I nodded. “Phone. Now.” I clicked my fingers twice.

She stared at me, then at the principal. “Do I have to give him my phone?”

Blackwell frowned. “I’m not sure ...”

“Then give it to her,” I told Julia, pointing at the principal. “Open it to text messages, and hand it over.”

“Why?” asked Julia stubbornly.

“Because if you don’t, your punishment may well double,” I stated. I had no idea as to whether I could back this up, but it seemed to work. She opened the phone, and put it on Blackwell’s desk.

“What am I looking for?” asked the principal.

“A text in the last hour, from Emma Barnes,” I informed her. “Body text will include the phrase ‘cried herself to sleep for a week straight’.”

It took ten seconds for the principal to find it. She read the damning text through, then rose to her feet.

“You took her to the classroom, yes?” she enquired of me.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“And you had her hand her phone over?”

I nodded. Changing recording cards, I played back the relevant section.

“And yet, she sent a text message ... twenty-four minutes ago,” she stated, looking at the timestamp on Julia’s phone. “Inciting Julia to gather others and bully Taylor, with that phrase specifically included.” She stared at me. “How did you know?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I know bullies,” I offered, which was true, but of no help whatsoever.

She breathed deeply, and smoke almost seemed to curl from her nostrils. “Thank you, Mr Allen,” she replied, with a nod to me. “I believe I can take it from here.”

I nodded in return. “Thank you, Principal Blackwell,” I responded politely. “I believe you can, too.”

=///=​

I followed along anyway, and entered the room to a tirade by Blackwell, aimed indiscriminately at the teacher and at Emma; Madison sat back, well out of the way of the storm. Emma was shouting her innocence at the principal; the teacher, bewildered but adamant, was claiming that no text messages had been made from the classroom.

I strolled down to the back of the classroom, where several art projects sat on a shelf. Reaching around behind one of them, I pulled out my second voice recorder. All eyes were on me as I returned to the front of the room. Silence fell as I clicked Play.

“Mads. Ask to go to the bathroom, then cover me.” Emma’s voice, hushed.

“What are you gonna do?”

“Just do it.”

A conversation ensued, where the teacher insisted that they both had to go if one went, and so both went. The twenty-four minute point came and went before they returned.

“So Emma lags behind just a bit, and scoops her phone up from the desk,” I observed as I shut the recording off. “She makes sure she’s first in on the way back, and puts it back. You can even just hear the clack as it hits the desk. Voila.”

Principal Blackwell observed the two girls grimly.

“Phones,” she gritted, “will be confiscated.”

My work there was done; I departed.


End of Chapter Ten

 

Security!

Chapter 11: Interactions Great and Small


Danny stood, arms folded, staring at Principal Blackwell.

“So you’re saying that Taylor was bullied, again, by six girls this time?” His voice was flat and hard, his expression grim.

Blackwell nodded. “Mr Allen figured out that Emma Barnes had gained access to her phone, despite this being prohibited. She instructed another girl, Julia Morrow, to do it in her stead. Ms Barnes has had her phone confiscated; so has Ms Clements.”

Danny frowned. “And why, exactly, have I been called away from work? Surely you can handle discipline matters on your own?” It’s kind of your job, his demeanour suggested.

“Oh, the girls are being punished,” the principal told him, eager to show that she was doing the right thing. “Julia is undergoing in-school suspension for the rest of the week, while the other five are in there for the day.”

“Seems a bit light,” Danny mused. “After all, they’ve no doubt done this before. But I guess it’s a start.” He spread his hands. “But you didn’t answer my question. Why am I here?”

Principal Blackwell took a deep breath. “Taylor attacked Julia,” she told Danny in a rush. “Julia claims that Taylor tried to break her arm.”

“Really?” responded Danny. “May I speak with my daughter about this?”

“Certainly,” Blackwell agreed. “But you must understand, that sort of thing is simply not acceptable. Other avenues must be explored first. Violence is simply not an acceptable alternative.”

“Did anyone ever explain that to Sophia Hess, I wonder?” asked Danny rhetorically. “I’d like to see Taylor now, please.”

Abashed, Blackwell pressed a button on her intercom. “Send Ms Hebert in now, please,” she instructed.

The door opened, and Taylor entered. “Hey, Dad,” she greeted him, looking rather cheerful.

“Hey, kiddo,” he replied. “Principal Blackwell tells me you’ve been fighting.”

Taylor shook her head. “Not fighting. Julia and the others crowded me into a corner, and wouldn’t let me out. I had my voice recorder on, so I got everything they said. And then I asked them to let me out, but they wouldn’t, so I used an arm bar on Julia, just like Mike – uh, Mr Allen, showed me.”

Danny frowned. “So they crowded you into a corner.”

Taylor nodded. “Yeah.”

“So, deprivation of liberty. How did they keep you there?”

Taylor shrugged. “Pushes and shoves, mainly.”

Danny nodded. “Physical assault, right.” He had pulled out a notebook and was writing in it. Principal Blackwell was looking rather nervous. He looked back at Taylor. “And what did they say to you?”

Another shrug from Taylor. “Oh, mean stuff. Same as usual. Ugly, stinky, I should kill myself. Emma must have texted Julia some really mean stuff, which she said to me just before I used the arm bar.”

“What kind of mean stuff, exactly?” asked Danny carefully.

“About how I felt after Mom died,” Taylor said quietly. “I told Emma once that I cried myself to sleep for a week. Emma told Julia, and Julia used it on me.”

“And then what happened?” Danny’s voice was very low.

“Well, I told Julia to move aside or I’d move her, and I stepped forward, and she went to shove me back, and I put her in the hold, and put her on her knees. And then Mr Gladly came back, and Mr Allen was with him, and told me to let her go.”

“Wait a minute,” Danny interjected with a frown. “Mr Gladly came back?”

Taylor nodded. “He’d spoken to me in the classroom about keeping an eye on me if I got bullied again, but when he came outside and locked the classroom, and the girls were all saying stuff, it was like he couldn’t hear it or anything. He just looked at me and walked away. But when Mr Allen came around the corner and spoke to him, he came back, after I put Julia in the hold.”

Danny turned to the principal, who flinched back at the fury in his expression. “Am I to understand that Gladly walked away from my daughter when she most needed his assistance?”

“We’re investigating the situation,” Blackwell stated hastily. “Mr Gladly will face disciplinary action.”

“I should damn well hope so,” Danny growled. “Those six girls should be facing criminal charges. Deprivation of liberty, physical assault, verbal assault ... I’ve had men get settlements in the tens of thousands for less. And you want to discipline Taylor for using a non-violent method for escaping the situation, especially after your faculty member chose to ignore what was going on?”

Principal Blackwell shook her head. “I’m in a bind here. If the Morrows want to cause trouble over Julia being put in that arm bar, whatever that is, then I need to be seen to be even-handed.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Even handed. Right. Which means the popular kids get their say and the quiet loners get marginalised. Okay. So what do you want me to do about it?”

The principal gestured vaguely. “Talk to her. Explain that it’s not the right thing to do.”

“Oh, is that all?” asked Danny. He turned to Taylor, and composed his expression into sternness. Blackwell could not see, but his eyes were twinkling behind his glasses.

“Taylor,” he told her firmly, “what you did was wrong. Don’t do it again.”

Taylor did her best to look meek and penitent, and nodded. “I won’t, Dad,” she promised.

Turning back to Blackwell, Danny shrugged. “I’ve said my piece. Are you satisfied?”

The principal nodded. “Certainly. Taylor, you can go now.”

Taylor nodded, and followed her father out.

Principal Blackwell sagged back in her chair with relief. When did Allen give Taylor lessons in self defence? was her first random thought.

Her second was more focused: The sooner I expedite the transfer papers to Arcadia, the better. Because if Emma Barnes keeps inciting people to attack Taylor Hebert, I’ll have more in suspension and detention than in class.

=//=//=​

“So, kiddo, you put her in an arm bar, huh?” asked Danny as they strolled along the hallway.

Taylor grinned widely. “It was awesome. One minute she’s saying all this nasty stuff about me, and the next, she’s on the floor on her knees.”

Danny eyed her critically. “One might imagine that you enjoyed it a little too much, kiddo.”

“Maybe just a bit,” allowed Taylor. “They were being really mean. I think it was actually beginning to get to me, a little.”

“Hmm,” mused Danny. “Just remember, kiddo. Don’t become a bully yourself, all right? Never set out to hurt someone just because you can.”

“I’ll remember not to, Dad,” she replied solemnly.

“Good,” he replied. “Now, as for what I said in the office. Don’t do it again, unless you’re provoked.” He grinned and squeezed her shoulder as they approached the doors. “But good job, all the same. Maybe now they’ll think twice.”

Taylor chuckled. “Some of them have trouble thinking once.”

They both laughed as he pushed open the doors that led outside.

=//=//=​

I looked up at the sound of laughter; Danny and Taylor stepped out through the doors into the open air. Taylor looked a little surprised to see me, but Danny did not.

I had decided to bring a folding chair out to the front doors of the school so that I could enjoy my lunch in peace and quiet. This had the secondary purpose of allowing me to brief Danny properly before he went in to talk to Blackwell.

“So how did it go?” I asked him, although the smile on his face boded well.

“She didn’t know what hit her,” he replied, the smile spreading into a grin. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Eh,” I shrugged. “Least I could do. Heading off now?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “Work calls.”

“Ah well,” I told him, standing up so I could shake his hand. “Have fun. I’ll see you around sometime.”

“Come over anytime,” he replied. Trotting down the steps, he climbed into his car. It started on the second try, and he drove on out of the parking lot.

Taylor watched the car go, then turned to where I was sitting again.

“Is it okay if I eat lunch out here with you, Mike?” she asked.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Just don’t forget to call me Mr Allen on school grounds. People might get upset.”

“Okay, sure,” she responded readily. Seating herself on the step nearby, she pulled her lunch from her bag. After the first few bites, she turned to look at me. “Can I ask you some questions about last night?” she asked quietly.

I nodded; I should have known, I thought, there was more than one reason to sit with me for lunch. But I would answer her questions as best I could.

“Sure,” I replied. “Fire away.”

She chewed and swallowed another couple of bites before she spoke next.

“Last night, you said that we attacked and beat Lung to make sure that the Undersiders weren’t killed by him. Is that right?”

“That’s correct,” I agreed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who we were up against from the start, but ...”

“... but you have your reasons, and I get that,” she told me. “You even let me make up my own mind.” She paused. “The ‘children’ he was talking about killing were the Undersiders, weren’t they?”

I nodded. “In the original timeline, when you were alone, you heard that, and decided to attack. Lung heard you stepping back on to the roof, and he jumped on to the rooftop. You hit him with pepper spray –“

“Which was why you gave me the extra-strength stuff –“ Taylor interjected, a note of revelation in her voice.

I nodded again. “And the screamer. You didn’t have that, the first time around. I figured it might be useful.”

“Against someone with super-hearing, yeah,” Taylor replied. “I thought that was kinda convenient, after the fact.”

“To be honest, I had no idea how well it would work,” I confessed. “And the little trick, using bugs to carry the pepper spray back ...”

“It was actually something you suggested, last night, while we were driving around,” she reminded me. I had no memory of saying it, but if she said so, it must be true.

“Yeah, it’s something you’d do a lot, later on in your career,” I observed. “And you pulled it off awesomely well. You’re really picking up on the little tricks and gimmicks.”

She flushed pink with pleasure. “It’s not hard,” she disclaimed. “Your suggestions are so simple and easy to follow.”

I chuckled. “That’s because they were originally your ideas, the other you. You’re just using them now instead of later.”

She tilted her head to one side. “So I’m really helping myself, in a way. You’re just passing on the messages.”

“That’s a sort of weird way to put it,” I agreed, “but yeah, not inaccurate.” I got up and dusted my hands off. “Be back in a sec.”

Descending the steps, I strolled across the parking lot to my car, retrieved the zippered wallet from behind the seat, and returned to where she sat. Opening it, I handed her another pepper spray and screamer. “Just in case,” I advised her.

I stowed the wallet in my bag, as she tucked the innocuous little cylinders into her own backpack. “Thanks, Mr Allen,” she said gratefully, then she paused, thinking.

“Can I ask why you want the Undersiders alive and well?” she queried.

“Ah,” I replied. “Before I answer that, have you gotten any strange messages over the PHO boards?”

She started. “I – I’d almost forgotten,” she confessed. “Tattletale sent me a message thanking me, and asking who the hell you were.”

“Did she ask to meet?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, just wanted to thank me. And ask about you.”

“Huh,” I mused. “Originally, you met and chatted to them on that rooftop, after Bitch’s dogs started using Lung as a chew toy.”

“So they did help out originally,” she noted.

“Yeah,” I told her. “You hit him harder and nastier this time round. But they were still grateful. See, they’d gotten word that Lung was after them, so they were discussing strategy. They headed into ABB territory and hit Oni Lee, Lung’s henchman –“

“I read about him on PHO,” Taylor added. “He teleports or duplicates or something, right?”

“Both. It’s very annoying,” I confirmed. “Anyway, they scared him off, but were wondering what was holding Lung up. In the original timeline, they came on the fight when you were in a bad position, completed the kicking of his ass, and then left before Armsmaster turned up.”

“Armsmaster,” repeated Taylor. “This time round, it was the others. They were friendly and polite.”

I cleared my throat. “Armsmaster would have been a bit of a dick to you. But anyway, the next morning, Tattletale contacted you and asked to meet. Which you decided to do.”

“Because they’d been nice to me,” she realised. “But surely I didn’t want to go from hero to villain straight away.”

I grinned. “That’s a story for another time. But as for your original question; I wanted the Undersiders to survive for two reasons. The first is that they aren’t bad people, not as such. In the other timeline, you become best friends with Tattletale, and you also become close to Grue. You even form a friendship of sorts with Regent – though he calls you ‘dork’ all the time – and Bitch. I don’t know if that sort of thing will be possible in this timeline, but I’d like to see if it could happen.”

Taylor’s eyes were wide. “Friendships with villains? Is that even possible?”

Thankfully, she did not pursue the 'close to Grue' aspect. I did not relish telling her about that particular relationship.

I shrugged. “They’re people. They’ve got their needs and wants and motivations. It may well be that just telling you has jinxed the very possibility of such a thing, but in that timeline, she took you under her wing when you were very close to becoming suicidal. Quite literally saved your life.”

She looked up at me, her eyebrow raised. “Sort of what you did with me, here and now?”

I shrugged very slightly. “Maybe.”

“Uh huh, no ‘maybe’ about it,” she retorted, a grin lurking on her face. “So what’s the second reason?”

I grinned. “Because they’ve got to rob a bank on the fourteenth.”

She stared at me. “What?”

“Voice down,” I cautioned her.

“There’s no-one nearby,” she told me smugly. “I’ve been practising scanning the area.” She paused. “What do you mean, they’ve got to rob a bank?”

I drew in a deep breath. “They had to be healthy enough to pull off the job. Their boss is going to give them the assignment to rob the bank, at a particular time of day. I need it to happen, in order to get the attention of a certain person, who also needs my help. Not quite as badly as you needed it, but not far off it either. In short? I need to be able to walk her out of the bank, just before it gets robbed.”

Taylor was frowning. “But we can’t just let it be robbed.”

“Oh, I intend to pass on the details to the authorities just before it happens, so that they will be more or less surrounded by the good guys before they have a chance to escape.” I paused. “Actually ... how would you like to help out, as Weaver?”

Behind her glasses, her eyes got really wide again. “Help stop a bank robbery? Sign me up.” She paused. “Is this going to be anything like the Lung fight?”

I shook my head. “Nope. You’re gonna show ‘em how a Master really does things. Here’s how we’re gonna do it ...”

=//=//=​

“So, how goes the investigation of that guy?” asked Brian, leaning over the back of the sofa.

Lisa rubbed her eyes. She looked as though she’d had very little sleep; this was, in fact, the truth.

“Frustrating,” she growled, shutting the laptop down. “Perfectly normal life. Grew up on a farm out in the sticks. Mediocre to good scores at school. Drove a taxi for ten years, then got into security work for another ten. Absolutely nothing that jumps out, even to me.” She frowned. “It’s the little tiny inconsistencies that bother me.”

“Not following you,” Brian responded.

“I read his age as forty-three when we met. Figured him to have a birthdate in August. And he does. But he was born in 1970, not ’67. So he’s forty.”

“Looks old for his age?” hazarded Brian.

She made a rude noise between her lips. “If I went on looks, I’d never get anywhere. I go on the total package, and my power told me he was forty-three. And there’s the other thing, the weird bit.”

“Which weird bit was that?” asked Brian patiently.

“His accent,” Lisa told him. “He was born in the United States. He’s never travelled overseas. But he’s got the very faintest trace of what feels like a British or Australian accent, right deep down, in back of his words. Like what you’d expect from someone who was born somewhere else, and moved here when they were very young. Or someone who’s just recently visited another country. And neither one is true.”

“So what now?” Brian prompted her.

“Nothing,” she replied grumpily. “I got no more leads to follow. So I guess I’ll just have to wait till he talks to us again.”

“So do you expect any answers from him at that point?” Brian enquired.

She rolled her eyes. “A headache, is what I’ll get. That son of a bitch is a mystery to me, and I fucking hate mysteries.”

“But you’ll talk to him anyway.”

“Try and stop me.”

=//=//=​

Taylor and I finished lunch, and our discussion, without any interruptions. I folded my chair, and picked up my bag; she picked hers up at the same time. She went to bump my fist, then paused.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re moving a lot more easily than you were last night,” she told me. “How are you feeling?”

“Well, the stab vest has seen better days,” I admitted, “but I’m feeling fine. I, uh, got some healing last night.”

“Healing?” she asked with a frown. “From where?”

I paused. “I’d ... rather not say, at the moment. I will tell you at a later date, however.”

She nodded consideringly. “Sure, but I’ll hold you to it.”

We bumped fists, then headed back inside.

I left Taylor to go her own way, while I went to drop off my bag in the small room which had been set aside for my bits and pieces. Before I set off on my next tour of the school, I glanced into the teachers’ lunch room.

Mrs Knott sat there, chatting with Mr Quinlan.

“Hello, Michael,” she greeted me, a smile on her face.

“Hi, Gladys,” I replied. “Quinlan, how you doing?”

“I’ve been better, been worse,” he grunted, heaving himself to his feet. “Sorry, gotta go and set up for next lesson. Little brats.”

I watched him go, then sat down at the table. “Is it me, or did he leave because I came in?” I asked her quietly.

She looked a little pained. “Rumours are getting around about what happened after first period. Mr Gladly has been telling everyone very loudly that you deliberately set out to get him in trouble.”

I snorted. “Got himself in trouble, more like,” I corrected. “The trouble with that man is that he wants to be seen as the cool teacher, the students’ friend. So much so that if he sees a situation that would normally require discipline, he’ll ignore it if he can get away with it. Doesn’t want to be seen as the ‘uncool’ teacher who actually enforces the rules.”

I stopped, aware that she was staring at me.

“Uh, or so I’ve sort of gathered,” I added lamely.

She shook her head. “No, you’re spot on target. Only, I’ve never heard it put so succinctly before.”

“Don’t tell anyone, for gods sake,” I asked. “I don’t want to go about gossiping behind peoples’ backs. That just kind of slipped out. Forget I ever said it.”

She was looking at me speculatively.

“What?” I asked.

“You are a profoundly strange person, Michael Allen,” she told me bluntly. “You can pick out a plot to bully Taylor Hebert from across the school, twice, and you can put your finger right on what makes the principal tick, as well as that Gladly clown – you can forget I ever said that, thank you kindly – but in other ways, you’re just as typically obtuse as the rest of your gender.”

I blinked. “I, uh, thanks?” I ventured. “Can I, uh, ask, what I’ve missed by being ‘typically obtuse’?”

She smiled and leaned in toward me. “Leaving me to run off yesterday springs to mind,” she murmured. “Just when I would not have objected overly much to having you stay and keep me company.”

I felt a warm flush sweep through my body. “I’m free this evening, I guess?” I told her. “If you don’t mind going out for coffee in the evening?”

She folded her hands and beamed at me. “Why, Michael Allen,” she declared. “I would adore to go for coffee in the evening. What time would you like to pick me up?”

“I’ll, uh, give you a call twenty minutes ahead of time. Is that enough time?”

She put her head to one side. “Make it half an hour, and it’s a deal.”

I grinned. “Half an hour it is.” A pause. “I’ve really got to get going, check around the school. You know, this job they’re paying me to do?”

She chuckled. “Go ahead. Make the school safe.”

“Well, less unsafe, I guess,” I responded, eliciting another chuckle from her. Reluctantly, I stood and headed for the door.

=//=//=​

There were ten minutes left in the lunch hour when I got to the third floor; I had originally intended to just do a quick sweep and work my way down, but then I heard the muted yelling. I headed that way, fast.

Just as I might have guessed, it was the gangs. Empire Eighty-Eight and ABB, junior chapters, looking to see who was top dog. They had forced the door of one of the unused classrooms, or found one unlocked; I didn’t much care how it had happened.

Inside, the desks had been pushed to the walls, and the two gangs formed a rough circle, with two of their brawniest members in the middle, intent on pounding the living crap out of each other.

Personally, I would have let them go at it. But I was the security guard, and it was more or less my job to put a stop to it. And in any case, if I let this go on, knives were likely to come out, and that could get very bad, very quickly.

They were so intent on the fight that I got right to the door before anyone noticed me. Taking a deep breath, I bellowed "Security!" as loudly as I could, then pushed through the circle to face the two in the middle. Heads turned toward me as if on springs.

I didn't give them a chance to think, to react.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I demanded. "Fighting? Fucking seriously? Did I say you could fight in here?"

They stared at me, as if I had grown a second head.

"Don't have to fuckin' ask you for permission, fat man," retorted one of the combatants, an E88 member by his shaved head. He was muscular, stocky, broader in the shoulders but a little shorter than his opponent. He went to shove me away.

I took his wrist, twisted it just so, spun him around, trapped his other arm, and ran him face-first into the wall. There was a thud as his forehead struck. I opened my hands and let him drop, groaning, to the floor.

Compliance holds could, after all, be used in less than friendly ways. I just wasn’t going to admit it to Principal Blackwell.

As I turned, the other one came at me. His shirt was off, but he had a red and green bandanna around his head. He was almost as tall as me, but a lot skinnier, had good muscle definition, and obviously worked out. He was also dancing on his toes; as he came in range, he spun, throwing a high kick at me. It was a good kick, a beautiful kick. He probably practised in front of a mirror with it. However, kicking anywhere above the waist was just asking for what I did next.

I let it hit me. If I was six inches shorter, it would have connected with my face. As it was, he hit the stab vest. I outweighed him possibly twice over; I didn’t give an inch.

Had he hit me in the ribs, on the right side, where his erstwhile boss had shattered the plates, he would have had more of an effect on me. But as it was, the plates spread the impact perfectly.

I felt the thump, and then I grabbed his ankle with both hands. As he yelped with surprise, I twisted his foot against the way his knee and hip wanted to go. And then I kicked his other leg from under him. He hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of him. I didn’t bother letting go of his leg.

"I don't give a shit if you fight," I told the staring faces. "Beat the goddam fuck out of each other for all I care. Just not. In. My. Fucking. School. Got it? Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight."

I let go the leg and stepped back, arms folded. The ABB guy was up first. "You can't tell us what to fucking do," he mumbled; it was an attempt at a defiant tone, but he was still winded.

"You want to go again?" I asked, stepping forward, into his personal space. He stepped back, and his leg nearly buckled. "No? Then it looks like I can tell you what to fucking do. Take your friends and go. Don't let me catch you fighting in the school again."

As he limped off, supported by his ABB cronies, I turned to the E88 boy, who was just getting to his feet. "You heard what I said," I told him. "You fight outside of school, I don't give a shit. Fight in school, I kick your fucking ass. You want to argue, we can go again."

"You fight dirty," he muttered, giving me a look of reluctant respect.

"Only way to fight," I assured him. "Now take your boys and get the fuck out of here."

I watched as he stumbled off, half-supported by one of his buddies.

As soon as they were around the corner, I leaned against one of the desks and gave way to the shakes.

That could have gone so wrong, I told myself. But hey, I can feel proud. I just beat up on a couple of high-schoolers. Go me.

They had been young and fit. I was more than twice the age of either one, almost twice the weight of either one, and although I wasn't fit, I had muscle and training. I'd known what I was doing. They hadn't. And that had made all the difference.

Fat man, my ass, I thought. That's fat man sir to you.

As I locked up the classroom again – at least they hadn’t damaged it, getting in – I knew quite well that I would not be reporting that little salutary lesson to Principal Blackwell. If she disapproved of students fighting in school, god only knew what she’d say about the security guard joining in.

=//=//=​

Down on the first floor, I passed Mr Gladly, escorting the girls back to their classroom from the cafeteria, where they’d eaten after everyone else had gone back to class. He said nothing to me, and I had nothing to say either. I gave him a curt nod and went on my way.

But the encounter gave me an idea. I decided to go and see the principal about it.

First, I checked on my appearance in the washroom, and was glad I had; there was a neat footprint across my chest, left there by the ABB high-kicker. I dabbed at it with a wet cloth until it was no longer evident. Explaining that away to the principal, I figured, would have been mildly difficult.

Finally satisfied with my turnout, I tapped on her door. “Ms Blackwell?” I enquired. “A moment of your time?”

She looked up, instantly wary. “What is it now?” she demanded. “More bullying? A gang war?”

I held up my hands placatingly. “No trouble, this time,” I assured her.

She visibly relaxed. “That’s good to hear,” she told me. “What is it?”

“Two matters,” I began, stepping into her office and closing the door. I gestured enquiringly at a chair; she gave a quick nod to allow me to sit. “Thank you,” I said as I seated myself. “As I was saying, two matters. One actually does regard the bullying, but it’s more a way to reduce the fallout. The other is a personal matter of mine.”

“Reducing the fallout?” she repeated, immediately interested.

I nodded. “I’d like to speak with Emma and her father after school today; just the three of us. Am I right in presuming that he’s been trying to put pressure on you to reduce Emma’s punishment?”

She didn’t speak, but I read the answer in her silence. “Yeah, figured as much,” I noted. “Well, as you may have figured, I’ve had the chance to speak to Sophia Hess and Taylor Hebert –“

“Wait,” she interrupted. “Where is Sophia, anyway? What’s happened to her? She never turned up, so I made a call, but they never called me back.”

You never noticed Taylor skipping school, but Sophia’s a whole different matter, isn’t she? But I didn’t speak the thought out loud.

“Sophia ... is in custody at the moment,” I informed her. “A serious matter. She won’t be returning to Winslow.”

She blinked rapidly. “Oh,” she replied blankly. “Was it something you –“

I shook my head. “She committed a crime, and got caught. But I did manage to speak with her. Also, I have spoken at length with Taylor Hebert. And I believe that if I can get the chance to speak with Emma and Alan Barnes, with the information I now possess, I may just be able to convince him to stop pressuring you.”

She frowned heavily. “I don’t know ...” she temporised.

“Look at it this way,” I gently urged her. “If it works, you get the benefit. If it fails, you had nothing to do with it.”

That obviously appealed to her; she rubbed her cheek thoughtfully. “You understand, you may not make any promises or deals on behalf of the school, yes? Nothing you say to them is binding until I’ve had a chance to review the recording.”

I hid a half-smile; she was catching on to my habit of recording everything.

Except the fight upstairs; that had been off the record.

“Well, yeah,” I agreed readily. “It’s just gonna be a talk, me to her, with her dad there to watch and listen.”

She thought it over carefully. I could see her thinking it over carefully.

“... all right,” she said at last. “You can talk to them after school is done. Use the guidance counsellor’s office.” She paused. “Do you want me to sit in?”

I shook my head. “If the matter comes up, I will provide you with the recording. But I expect we’ll keep it between ourselves.”

“And you say that this might get Alan Barnes off of my back?” she asked.

I nodded. “I’m hopeful of it, anyway. It certainly shouldn’t make matters worse.”

“Well, your other suggestions have panned out reasonably well,” she admitted, “so I’ll let you have this one. You have my permission to speak with Alan and Emma Barnes after school.” She paused. “What was the other matter, the personal one?”

“Ah.” I was mildly embarrassed; I had totally forgotten it, and had been about to stand up. “Yeah, I might need an extended lunch break on Thursday. I need to get some stuff done in the city.”

“You won’t be gone too long?” she asked of me.

I shook my head. “Hour and a half, tops,” I assured her.

“That should be fine,” she agreed. “Let me know when you’re about to go, and when you get back.”

“I can do that,” I agreed. “And thanks again for letting me speak with the Barneses.”

“Just don’t make matters worse, is all I ask,” she told me bluntly.

“I will do my very best,” I assured her, rising. By the time I reached the door, she was already bent over her paperwork again.

Just outside her office, a thought struck me.

I keep forgetting to do this.

I went to the washroom, checked to see that the stalls were all empty, entered one, pulled out my phone and made a call.

=//=//=​

The phone rang, again. Director Piggot glared at it, but it rang anyway.

Irritated, she snatched it up. “Director Piggot’s office,” she snapped.

“Director Piggot,” she heard, “I have a caller requesting to speak to you directly. He says the name is Security.”

Emily didn’t hesitate. “Put him through,” she replied.

There was a moment of dead air, then the familiar voice. “Hello?”

“This is Director Piggot. I’m speaking to Security?”

“That’s me,” he confirmed. “I’ve just got a message that needs to be passed on to Miss Militia. I promised her I’d pass on some information, as soon as I had it confirmed.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “What’s the information?”

“Tell her, ‘left foot’. Bakuda has the toe rings on her left foot.” He paused. “I presume you know what I’m talking about.”

“I do,” she told him. “She made her report to me this morning. Thank you for that information; I’ll pass it on to her soonest. Was there anything else?”

“Well, there’s gonna be some diversionary crimes for the kidnapping on Thursday,” he stated. “I’m still working on the exact when and where. But the kidnapping’s the big thing. You have to ensure that there’s absolutely no chance it can happen. Even if you see no evidence of any possible attempt. The bastard’s tricky as hell.”

Piggot snorted. “Trust me, with this much lead time, we can make it solid,” she assured him. “And any more information you can give us will be gratefully accepted.”

“You’ll get it when I can give it to you,” he replied. “See you later.”

She was already putting the phone down when she heard the connection end.

Left foot, she thought. And possible diversionary crimes.

He’s adamant for the kidnapping to not go through. Sounds scared, almost.

From what I heard this morning, if he’s scared, I should be terrified.

Piggot privately vowed to make the cover on Dinah Alcott as airtight as possible.

=//=//=​

I stood on the steps outside the school, with Principal Blackwell beside me, along with Julia, Emma and Madison. The other five girls, released from their punishment at the end of the day, had bolted like frightened rabbits. I suspected that it would be a while before they attempted to assist in bullying anyone again, much less Taylor Hebert.

Talking of Taylor, I saw her descending the steps, head high, moving confidently. She didn’t seem to look our way, but a fly buzzed in my ear for just a moment before zooming off again.

I spotted Alan Barnes’ bulk moving through the crowd before I saw Madison’s parents. I didn’t see Zoe Barnes at all. Two more adults, who I took to be the Morrows, were also moving against the stream of students toward where we stood at the top of the steps.

Alan Barnes reached us first. “Come on, Emma, let’s go home,” he told her.

“Uh, Mr Allen wants to talk to us,” she replied in a subdued voice. “Principal Blackwell has said it’s okay.”

“Talk?” he snapped sharply. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Quite likely,” I agreed. “But there is stuff you need to hear about. Off the record.”

His gaze sharpened. “Off the record?” he repeated.

“Totally,” I agreed.

He paused.

“Half an hour, tops,” I observed. “Just talking.”

The curiosity was beginning to take hold now, I could see. He paused, irresolute.

I waited, an expression of bland politeness on my face.

“... fine,” he growled. “Just talking. Off the record.”

“You got it,” I agreed cheerfully.

I turned, to see that Principal Blackwell had dismissed Madison’s parents with their errant daughter, and was escorting the Morrows in toward her office, so that she could discuss with them what their girl had done.

The last few students surged past us, and down the steps. We were alone.

“Well,” I observed, “time for that chat.”

=//=//=​

I opened the door to the guidance counsellor’s office, and waved them to seats. Shutting the door carefully, I sat down myself.

“So, what’s this about?” asked Alan Barnes. “And have you shut off your damn voice recorders?”

I grinned briefly. Pulling out both recorders, I shut one off. Placing a fresh card in the other, I started it and said clearly, “This is Michael Allen, security guard. The date is April eleven, two thousand eleven. The time is ... three forty-two. I am in the guidance counsellor’s office with Alan Barnes and Emma Barnes, and we are going to talk over private matters. This recording is strictly to ensure that no-one makes any false statements about what happened during this session, and is otherwise inadmissible for any legal purpose. Alan Barnes, do you agree to those conditions?”

He paused, thinking about what I had stated, and then nodded. “I am Alan Barnes,” he declared in his best courtroom voice, “and I deny that any part of this recording has any legal standing. The date is April eleven, twenty eleven, and the time is three forty-three PM. With me is the security guard Michael Allen, and my daughter Emma. Emma, do you agree to these conditions?”

Emma cleared her throat, and spoke quickly. “Yeah, what they said. It’s just to make sure no-one can say shit about it afterward. I’m Emma Barnes, and the time and date my dad said are correct.”

“Good,” I stated, and placed the recorder in the middle of the table. “So, let’s begin. Emma. This is all about you.”

“Me? What about me?” asked Emma, gaining some level of defiance from having her father in the room.

I smiled slightly. “Just so you both know, I know that Sophia Hess is Shadow Stalker. And I know that you both know. That’s for starters.”

“I figured something of the sort,” growled Alan Barnes. “How did you find out?”

“Principal Blackwell told me. I signed an NDA, otherwise Taylor would be attending as well,” I informed him.

“What’s Taylor got to do with this?” Emma wanted to know.

“Everything,” I informed her. “But as she’s not here, let’s move on.”

I took out the other recorder, slid in a particular card, and found the right spot. Then I pressed Play.

“You.” It was Sophia’s voice.

“Me.” My voice. “Can I help you?”

There was harsh laughter. “Can you fucking help me. What the fuck is this? I’m going to fucking kill you, you fat fuck.”

“Why?” my voice asked. “What did I ever do to you?”

“You fucked with me, asshole,” Sophia snarled on the recording. “It was none of your fucking business what I do to who, and you had to stick your nose in. You fucking got me in-school suspension. And they’re gonna be looking hard at me, seeing if there’s a way to boot me back to juvey without looking too bad.”

“So your handler’s not able to whitewash it this time, huh, Sophia?” My voice was sympathetic.

“How the fuck did you know about that?”

“I’m good at my job,” my voice on the recording commented mildly. “Anyway. Isn’t murder a little bit over the top for what I did?”

“I don’t lose. Not to disgusting old fat fucks like you. So you’re gonna die in a tragic home invasion gone wrong, they’re gonna find kiddie porn on your computer, then Emma’s father is going to speak to the principal. You’re shown up as a pedo freak, everything you’ve said and done is thrown out, the suspension is lifted, and life goes on. I fucking win.”

I pressed Stop.

Alan and Emma were staring at me.

“Shadow Stalker broke into my home at one AM Saturday morning, and attempted to murder me,” I observed blandly. “She’s currently in custody, awaiting trial.”

“I didn’t know anything about that,” Alan stated firmly. “If you take that to the police –“

“Relax,” I advised him, leaning back. “As a lawyer, you’re basically morally bankrupt, but I will grant that you’re not a fucking moron. I’m just letting you know that I know stuff. I’ve spoken to Sophia, you see. Her and Taylor. And it’s amazing what I’ve pieced together. Stuff that you’re possibly not even aware of.”

He tilted his head. “Such as ...?”

“Such as the incident that happened around August, two thousand and nine,” I mused. “You were driving through town, talking to Emma, trying to get her to pick a subject for out of school study. Ballet, horseback riding, modelling classes or violin. And she was being a typical fourteen year old brat and not picking any. Right?”

He stared at me. “Right,” he replied at last, though I could see him trying to figure out how I knew.

“And then Taylor rang you, Emma, and you were talking to her, and she was telling you about nature camp, and you were enjoying it, right?”

Emma nodded.

“So you turned down a side street, and it was blocked at the far end by a dumpster. And then there was a van behind you. And there were ABB. And they dragged you from the car, didn’t they, Emma?”

My voice had gone gentle; I didn’t need to traumatise her right now. She took a deep shuddering breath, and looked at me.

“Yeah,” she replied shortly. “They did.”

“And they cut off a bit of your hair, they were talking about cutting off your ears, or cutting out an eye, or slicing your lips up, and they stuffed your hair in your mouth and told you to eat it, and then choose which one they were going to do to you, didn’t they?”

Alan put his arm around Emma, who was beginning to shake. “What the fuck is this?” he demanded. “How do you know this? What are you doing this for?”

“I’m getting to it,” I told him. “Because then you saw her, didn’t you? Shadow Stalker. And what was she doing?”

Emma didn’t reply.

“I’ll tell you what she was doing,” I said to Alan Barnes. “She was on top of your car. Watching. Waiting. Not helping Emma in the slightest.”

“No, no, that’s wrong,” he protested. “She did help. She beat them bloody. She saved Emma.”

I nodded. “Oh, she did all that,” I agreed. “But only after Emma fought back. Pushed the girl. If she hadn’t ... well, they would have done what they were going to do to Emma ... mutilation, rape, worse ... and then she would have punished them for the crime. But that wouldn’t have helped Emma very much, would it?”

“But she did fight back!” he blustered. “My Emma’s a strong girl! A fighter!”

She gave him a grateful look.

“Really?” I snapped. “Is she smart enough to know that against people with knives, your best option is to run like hell?” I stood up. “Mr Barnes, I am a trained security guard. I have been specifically trained with techniques to deal with people in close-in situations. And I’m still issued with a stab vest.” I knocked on the vest with my knuckles, producing a sharp rapping noise.

Unbuttoning my left sleeve at the cuff, I pushed it up to show the thin red line where the knife cut had been. “Not so long ago, I was face to face with a man with a switchblade. He was smaller than me. I’m trained. I knew exactly what to do. And he still cut me.”

They stared at the scar, then back at my face. I sat down, pushed the sleeve down again, began to button it.

“But they were going to cut me anyway ...” Emma began.

“Yes,” I sighed. “There is that. Which comes back to Sophia. She expected you to fight back, no matter what. No matter if it got you cut, mutilated, or killed. Her expectation of you was that if you didn’t fight back, you didn’t deserve rescue.”

I looked Alan Barnes dead in the eye. “Is that the sort of person you’d call a hero?”

He stared back at me for a long moment, then dropped his eyes. “No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”

“But she still saved me!” protested Emma.

“We’re getting to that,” I told her. “So, after it was over, you left. You, Emma, were horribly traumatised by the whole thing. Which, mind you, could have been easily avoided if she’d just taken action sooner. Do you disagree, Mr Barnes?”

Alan Barnes shook his head. “No,” he stated. “No, I do not.” His voice was quiet.

“And then Emma goes back to the site. And she encounters Sophia. Who’s probably been following her, watching to see if she would.” I paused. “Stalking.”

Emma’s eyes opened wide. “No,” she protested. “It’s not like that!”

“Ah, so it’s a coincidence,” I mused. “Do you believe in coincidence, Mr Barnes?”

A long pause. He shook his head. “No, I do not.”

“Nor do I,” I continued. “Now, right now, Emma’s in a very fragile mental state. She encounters the girl who saved her. Sophia espouses her personal world-view. It’s all about the strong and the weak. Those who fight survive; those who submit die. She impresses Emma so much that she decides to be one of the strong ones. She doesn’t want to die. Who does, when it comes down to it?”

Silence. They watched me carefully.

“So, roll on a few weeks. You’ve been avoiding talking to Taylor on the phone, because you don’t want her pity, because pity’s for the weak. But more than that, you’re envious because Taylor’s been getting better from her mother’s death. She’s shown her strength, gradually getting better, day by day. And you don’t want to appear weak next to her.”

“Taylor ...” I couldn’t tell what Emma meant to convey with that tone.

“Oh yeah,” I told her. “We’re down to Taylor now.”

Alan was looking from me to his daughter and back.

I went on. “I can pretty well pinpoint the time you decided to make Taylor weak so as to appear strong. It was when Sophia was there, and Taylor got back from nature camp. She came over, all happy and gawky, looking nine instead of fourteen, and Sophia disapproved of her. And you were still very insecure in your newfound strength, and you didn’t want Sophia thinking you were weak, so you didn’t back Taylor up. And then Sophia – being the natural bully she is – tripped Taylor on her way out. And there was your cue.”

“But that’s not the way it was,” Emma protested. “I wasn’t trying to push her down. I was trying to make her strong. Toughen her up.”

“Really?” I asked. “So the flute was all about toughening her up?”

“The flute?” asked Alan Barnes, his voice sounding rough. He cleared his throat. “What flute?”

I smiled thinly. He obviously had not spoken with his wife on the subject. “Anne-Rose had a flute; do you recall it?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, after she died, Danny gave it to Taylor. A keepsake of her dead mother. Such a thing, you can imagine, would be precious to a heartbroken child.”

He nodded again, silent.

“Well, one day, having been bullied relentlessly for weeks, Taylor brought the flute to school. It was something that reminded her of her mother. If she could see it, look at it, touch it, between classes, she reasoned, it would give her strength to go on. Let her feel as though she had backup.”

Alan Barnes looked ill; he thought he could see where this was going.

“Sophia stole it from her locker. Taylor went to Emma and asked for it back. Begged. Pleaded. And Emma told her ... you remember what you told her, Emma?”

We both looked at the redhaired girl. She hung her head, refused to reply.

“It seems that she does,” I observed. “She taunted Taylor, told her that she shouldn’t have brought it to school if she didn’t want to lose it. Then she left Taylor and went to Sophia. Asked her if she’d taken it. Sophia said yes, she had. Asked Emma what she should do with it.”

I looked at Emma. “And she considered giving it back, just for a moment. But she didn’t want to step back to being the old Emma, the weak Emma, the Emma that was friends with Taylor. So she told Sophia to fuck with it, do something disgusting to it, wreck it. Anne-Rose’s flute. Anne-Rose, who never did a bad thing to either one of you.”

Alan Barnes looked at his daughter, his expression puzzled, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at.

Emma looked up at him, tears streaking her face. “It wasn’t like that,” she whispered. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t mean it the way you’re saying.”

“Emma.” My voice was flat and hard; her gaze snapped to mine. “In all the time you were tormenting Taylor, in all the eighteen months, did she ever snap back, hit back, fight back?”

She nodded hesitantly. “Sometimes, early on, yes,” she ventured. “But Sophia said it wasn’t enough, she had to prove she was strong, prove she was a predator and not prey. And then she just ... stopped reacting.”

“So then you were just trying to break through the shell, to make her react, make her cry, is that it?” I pressed.

She rolled her eyes. “It got to be just about fuckin’ impossible,” she complained. “After the locker ...”

She paused, her eyes wide.

“After the locker ... yes,” I mused. “Oh yeah, I know about the locker. I know it was you three. I know it was Sophia who grabbed her by the hair and shoved her in there, but it had to be you and Madison who helped her.”

She swallowed, and looked at her father.

“Just to reiterate,” I stated clearly. “Nothing that is admitted during this little conversation is going to be grounds for punishment. I already knew it. I just wanted to make sure that both of you knew it.” I raised my eyebrows at Alan Barnes. “Did you know this about your daughter?”

“No,” he said hollowly. “I didn’t.”

“Well, it looks like we’re about done here,” I said, stretching. “I’d just like you to do me a personal favour, Mr Barnes?”

He looked at me warily. “What?”

I shrugged slightly. “Stop bugging Principal Blackwell about letting Emma off her in-school suspension, hm?”

He looked at me, then at Emma. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You got it.”

I stood up, and picked up the voice recorder. “One more thing, Emma, before we end this.”

She looked up at me, her expression even more shattered than before.

“Just because someone with a stupid fucking philosophy of life does you a huge favour does not make that philosophy right. It’s still fucking stupid. Sophia can’t really help the way she is; her power fucked her head up. You don’t have that excuse. You can change. It’s up to you.”

“But I did change!” Emma protested. “Sophia showed me how! I was weak, now I’m strong! I am!”

“Yeah,” I observed. “So ... how’s that working out for you, exactly?”

Holding up the voice recorder, I spoke clearly. “This recording is being ended now.” I gave the time, and then turned the recorder off. Before anyone could speak, I held up a finger. “I’m now turning my other recorder back on. Just so you know.”

Alan Barnes had been about to speak; he shut his mouth again.

“Thanks for that talk,” I said to Alan as I opened the door. “I hope we don’t have to have it again.”

He shook his head. “No,” he observed. “I think, however, we will be continuing it at home.”

“Might be a good idea,” I commented. “Also, ask her about the time she went out and about with Sophia, and what happened that night.”

Emma whipped her head around to stare at me. Alan observed the motion, and looked at me. “Is it ... bad?” he asked.

“Ask her,” I advised him. “If she’s smart, she’ll be honest.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “She will.”

We faced each other in the hallway.

“Mr Barnes,” I said.

“Mr Allen,” he replied.

And then he held out his hand. I shook it.

“Thank you,” he told me. “It wasn’t in the least bit pleasant, but I think I needed to hear it.”

I nodded. “You might consider getting her therapy,” I suggested.

“After that,” he stated, “I think we both need it.”

It was a feeble joke at best, but we both chuckled.

“Come on, Emma,” he told his daughter, and they turned and walked off down the hall.

I wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen to her when she got home, but it wasn’t going to be fun.

Maybe she’ll get all the shit knocked out of her head, and become a decent human being, I mused. It’s the best chance she’ll ever get.

=//=//=​

My good feeling lasted until five o’clock. I got my bag, signed the keys back in, and headed out to the front carpark, where my pickup was parked.

I was halfway down the front steps when I focused on my vehicle, and my steps slowed, and then stopped.

“Ah fuck.”

One or another of the gangs that I had interrupted in their pissing contest had decided to show their displeasure.

I walked around the pickup, hoping that the damage wasn’t as bad as it looked from a distance.

It was worse.

The tyres were slashed, the windscreen was shattered, and obscene slogans had been daubed over the paintwork, mainly in red and green. Someone had made an effort at kicking in the panelling, but the old pickup was tough; that, at least, would be easily fixed.

The rest ... would cost a lot. Far too much.

I went back and sat on the steps, looking at my forlorn vehicle.

“Fuck.”


End of Chapter Eleven