Infernal Conundrum - Story Only Thread (Worm/Exalted)(Crosspost)

Emergence 2.10b

ooo
After Armsmaster's question, you start to respond in the affirmative. However it occurs to you that no, you aren't nearly set to proceed. Shaking your head, you hold up a hand and bolt for the stairs, calling down at the heroes, "Hang on! I need to get the paperwork for the school transfer! And...well, other stuff!" Scrambling and scrabbling your way up the steps you barrel into your room to start dismantling your dresser and desk in order to begin collecting the necessary documents.

You set one partition of your mind to cataloguing the necessities, even as you feel the mild fuzz of weariness from your interrupted sleep beginning to bleed off the edge of your mind. You decide to look into that more later. Checking that the windows are shut and the blinds are drawn, you send your mind-tendrils out teasing their way through stacks of paperwork, sifting through the detritus of years even as you shout down to your Dad, "Can you get those for me?"

He calls up in the affirmative, and before long you can hear his steps on the stairs then heading back to his room. Collecting the remnants of what documentation you needed from your room, you rush down the steps and into the armored chestplate of the local Protectorate leader. You start to ease past him, trailing a tendril-towed tornado of documentation which is laid in perfect order and organization on the table's edge by the lashing limbs of light. You stop a moment, goggling at the hero, unable to help the question that comes to mind: "Wh-why the hell did you do that when you were putting this together? It...what the he-how does that even work?!" You blink, turning bemusedly to Miss Militia. "Are all Tinker methods as bullshit as his? I...isn't science supposed to be able to be duplicated? I...I'm pretty sure you could repeat every step he did in making that, and it just wouldn't work right. Even though you did the exact same things." You scowl furiously up at Armsmaster, daring him to explain why his armor is in defiance of the very principles of science and the scientific method itself.

"Maybe if I tried disassembling a gauntlet I could doublecheck that," your mind-hands move to try to grasp one of Armsmaster's armored gloves, only to stop as your father's hand comes down firmly but gently on your shoulder. You blink, looking between the ashen-faced Armsmaster and your father's amused expression.

"Taylor, don't terrorize the poor hero. He clearly doesn't want you disassembling his gear."

ooo

ooo

The preparations take another ten-to-fifteen minutes beyond that, with your father making a call to inform Brandish of everything going on, and--after a brief segue to a discussion between the lawyer and Armsmaster which he clearly in no way enjoyed--a final discussion was held and what sounded like a more formal agreement was drawn up from the half of the conversation you could hear. If your reading up on the law was leading you rightly. That accomplished, the four of you made your way to one of the PRT's ubiquitous, nondescript panel vans, the same one Miss Militia must have arrived in, now that you think about it. Loading in, you sit down by a window and, giving your dad's arm a squeeze of reassurance and nerves and excitement all at once, you watch out the window as your house, it's little garden, and then your whole street and neighborhood roll past.

You can't help but feel a lightness and an excitement suffuse your limbs, swelling your heart, leaving you just shy of dancing in your seat as you watch the landscape roll by the window before you. You hadn't been entirely sure if Armsmaster was being genuine when he asked you to forgive him for what had happened with your Dad, but the fact that he'd come here to apologize to you, even so far as to bring you and your Dad out to the local headquarters to make that apology a public one, well, it said volumes about his earnesty. You still weren't entirely sure why you were being taken out to the Protectorate Rig instead of the Downtown PRT building. Still almost floating from the excitement of the meeting--Miss Militia was so nice!--you started to consider why that was before the van turned to pull down an apparently empty jetty, save for the security station your van passed through and a stretch of roadway which abruptly terminated at the jetty's end. That was odd.

<Taylor, I've been thinking, and I think there's something more going on here than just what w-,> Uncertainty cut off abruptly as, with an immense thrum, a long, gently inclined section of what had to be the same thing as the shimmering forcefield which gave the floating Protectorate base its nigh unassailable status suddenly came into being between the end of the jetty and the base. You had seen it once or twice before, even from up close when you and, a pang hits you at the thought, Emma had gone on a tour, your mothers accompanying you both through the official tour and taking you to the gift shop. You remembered that trip. It had had been a good one. You'd gotten an Alexandria lunchbox and...clothes, yes that fit, with Armsmaster's logo on them. You but your lip at the pang of ache that memory brought now. Things had been so much better then. The wold had seemed so bright and full of hope.

Feeling your dad's arm on your shoulder, you turn your head to face him and give him a tight smile.

"You okay, kiddo?" His brows are drawn down in concern over his large eyes and worry creases his expression.

Blinking, you realize you'd been tearing up. "Y-yeah, Dad. I'll," you take a moment to wipe your eyes and give him a smile, "I'll be fine. Just remembering the last time I was here. With Mom and," your sigh speaks volumes, "you know."

"Oh." He manages a similar eloquence of the monosyllabic response, pulling you into the best half-hug the van's seatbelts will allow. After a moment, he lets go and looks past you out the window. "It sure is something. She always thought so. Used to say it was something straight out of mythology. A rainbow bridge from the Earth up to a hall of marvel and wonders. She never was quite comfortable with the part where heroes were gods in that particular allusion." He gave you a small hug again. "Of course she's always lighten the mood by saying at least it was the Norse gods instead of Greek ones. At least they fought alongside mankind against the monsters." He smiled fondly, a little laugh escaping his lips. "You know, she never did forgive the Empire for that." At that, Miss Militia looked over with curiosity. Dad's cheeks flushed at the attention. "Norse myth. She would go on such tears about how awful it was that an entire mythology, just dripping with symbolism, meaning, and the wisdom of entire cultures, had been forever attainted in the public eye because some shortsighted, racist monster had decided he liked the way it fit his personal self-aggrandizement." He shrugged. "Of all the villains in the Bay, I think she held Allfather in the worst contempt, while he was alive. And by the time Kaiser took over, well, the damage was already done." He smiled bittersweetly, his mind traveling back to her passion and her fire.

You were saved the need to respond by the sudden jolt of the van's tires transferring from the perfectly smooth surface of the forcefield to concrete. Feeling the resumption of the gentle shaking you hadn't even noticed had disappeared, you looked up from remembrances of your own to see you were in a parking garage if some sort, your van coming to a stop alongside dozens just like it.

Hopping out of the doors once they were opened for you, you and your father followed Miss Militia to an elevator, where Brandish waited in a smart business suit, briefcase held at her side. She bore a visitor's name tag on her coat's lapel, and as you reached her, she held her hand out for first you and then your father to shake.

Waiting to the side while you greeted your lawyer, Miss Militia stepped up once that was done and gestured for the three of you to join her in the elevator, indicating that the pair of PRT troopers who had accompanied Brandish thus far were relieved of that duty.

Giving a terse nod first to you and then to Brandish, Armsmaster joined you all in the elevator, pressing a button for your destination. "If you would all follow me, we have a conference room prepared for this."

Brandish starts to interject, but Armsmaster holds up a forestalling hand. "Please, just bear with me a moment until we're there. It will be easier not to have to repeat this."

Though she's clearly unhappy at the attempt to override her comment, Brandish looks to your father then to you for input before proceeding. On receiving your father's concerned shrug and your thoughtful nod, she inclines her own head. "Very well, but keep in mind I will be keeping an eye out for any untoward behavior toward my client."

Armsmaster gives her a short nod, then gestures to an open door before him. Inside, a large conference room is organized around a sturdy table. On it, three identical sets of documentation sit, one for each of you, your father, and Mrs. Dallon. At the head of the table, facing you all, a heavy-set woman in a navy suit and skirt whose blonde bob-cut and composed, serious face do wonders to set up the no-nonsense impression her steely grey eyes hammer home like a pair of bright, shining new nails. As the door shuts behind you all, she reaches out and activates a device set on the center of the table, filling the room with a barely-perceptible humming.

"I'm sure you're all wondering why I'm here instead of meeting you at the PRT HQ downtown. I assure you all of your questions will be answered, but first I need you to review and sign these Non-disclosure agreements. We generally, and I myself individually, owe you an apology Miss Hebert, Mister Hebert. However,what we discuss next must not leave this room until or unless such a time as you are authorized by me for it to do so." Folding her arms behind her back in a military at-rest stance, Director Piggot of the PRT ENE gave every indication of being able and willing to wait all day on the documents if that was what it took.

ooo

+1 xp

 

Emergence 2.10c

A long silence reigned in the conference room as you looked between the gathered figures. The Director remained imposing, immovable. Miss Militia remaind at parade rest, awaiting further orders. Armsmaster's visor turned between you and the director, his mouth thinning briefly before he looked right at you and gave you a slight nod. Clearly, he wanted you to sign. He had mentioned that the visit had to do with keeping promises to you. You could, after all, hardly expect him to prove his intentions if you never gave him the chance to do so in the first place. You thought you knew what the right response was then, but just to be sure, you looked first to your Dad, then to Brandish. There was, after all, no point in retaining the services of a lawyer if you didn't actually seek her advice when it came to legally binding contracts. You frowned, concerned at the expression on Mrs. Dallon's face. Her eyes had narrowed at the mention of an NDA, and from forward lean of her posture, the thinning of her lips, the presence of those papers confirmed something, something she didn't like. For his part, your father gave you a supportive squeeze on the shoulder, simply offering, "You're the hero here, kiddo. I'll leave it to you."

Closing your eyes, you consult the last source of advice left to you. <Uncertainty? What do you think?>

<Hm?> The mental voice sounds surprised at you consulting him. <I...er. Well. I don't know enough about the system of laws your mortal society has in place to really offer a meaningful suggestion. All I can think to say under the circumstances is that you should always be careful never to swear oaths or make promises you will regret. And never swear an oath lightly. If you do not intend to keep it, don't agree to it.>

<I,> well that was a sobering suggestion. <I'll take that to heart.>

You drew in a deep breath, then opened your eyes again, nodding. Looking up, you meet the Director's iron-eyed stare. "Very well, ma'am. Everything about you screams that you don't waste your time, much less other people's, so I'm going to assume you wouldn't go to all this trouble unless there wasn't a practical way around it." Letting out that breath, you lean forward, taking up the cold, metal pen that rested atop the stacked documentation and signed at the indicated places. Beside you, your father and Brandish both picked up their own pens, though Brandish, for her part held up a hand. She went back over the document, examining the copy drafted for her to sign for discrepancies or differences. Clearly she found a few, as her lips pulled in, pursed as she nodded unhappily at several segments of the agreement. Still, after she finished reviewing the alterations, she signed. Your dad had, at this point, already done likewise.

Closing the pen and setting it down, you turned around the whole set of papers around and pushed them back across the conference table toward Director Piggot. "There. It's signed. I," you frowned, then shrugged, leaving the thought unfinished.

The director gave you a moment to see if you were going to say more, then, satisfied that she was not about to interrupt you, continued. "Very well. First, Miss Hebert and Mister Hebert, I would like to open by apologizing to both of you both personally and on behalf of the PRT. You have been deeply wronged in multiple incidents both by the actions and inactions of our agents and the Protectorate's heroes."

Your eyes widened in shock. Calling your essence into obedient action, you hear that crystalline undertone suffusing the director's words.

"Had we not failed to adequately secure the...we're calling the chrysalis, which you were contained within, your father would never have gotten injured. Likewise, had we not been occupied with internal matters which, at the time, were deemed of higher priority, we would have been better prepared to respond to the assault on the transport bringing you to our facilities."

You felt a sick unease spread through your stomach as every single word she said came back as utter and unadulterated truth.

"The circumstances of under which you gained your powers should never have come to pass. We bear some measure of responsibility for those."

You didn't like where this was going. Looking to your right, Brandish liked it less, a cold certainty feeding into anger in her expression. You were half-surprised you didn't see glowing blades in her clenching fists rather than the handle of her leather briefcase. To your right, you could see a mix of disbelief and swiftly banking fury growing on your father's expression.

Your mind races through three different trains of thought as the director opens her mouth to continue.

"And that brings us to the crux of this meeting. Both the internal item we thought so critical to see to and the reason those NDAs were necessary. Prior to a week ago, Sophia Hess was a ward, specifically the one known as Shadow Stalker."

You'd never heard something so simultaneously beautiful and hateful at once as that ringing clarity, that tone of truth in her words. Sophia Hess. Sophia fucking Hess. Was a hero. Was a Ward.

You barely beat your father's enraged shout by grating out, "Explain. Now."

The director's lips thinned a moment and her eyes narrowed. She was clearly not a woman accustomed to having demands made of her. Much less so by a child. Tough. She could deal with it, she owed you answers for this. Unless she was utterly deluded, she had to know that without an explanation, that sentence alone would have solidly and utterly destroyed any good will she might hope to engender toward the Wards or the PRT in you.

She nodded. "You're angry. You deserve to be."

That...was not how you expected her to proceed. You set one mental facet to examining that thought, even as another continued to mentally hurl every expletive you knew, and several dozen new ones helpfully provided to it by Uncertainty, at the Sophia, Winslow, the PRT, the Wards, the Protectorate, and all involved.

"You're damned right we do!" Your father had finally had too much, and his normally quiet voice bellowed into the still room. "You let this, this fucking monster onto your teams, let her torture my daughter!? And you what? How in the fuck do you think this turns out well for you?"

He was about to continue when your hand squeezing his arm brought you back to his mind. You saw a brief flicker of deep shame and loathing run across his horrified features as he realized he'd exploded in front of you. Again. You just smiled up at him and hugged him. Turning the coldest gaze you could manage, you affixed Armsmaster and Director Piggot with an icy glare.

"Answer his question. As I said, Director, you don't seem the type to poison the well before you have to drink out of it. Or to waste time. Telling me this without an explanation would be doing both at once in what would have to be the most potentially disastrous way possible. So, as I said," you put the fullest force of your personality and glacial anger into the two syllables, "Explain."

Both Brandish and your father seemed surprised at the sudden statement, the cold way you delivered it, the sheer force of that delivery.

Both the Director and Armsmaster seem similarly surprised. Armsmaster opens his mouth, turns to Piggot, she nods, and he says, with complete and absolute truth, "We don't."

You frowned at that. They didn't expect this to go well for them?

He continued on. "As I told you before. We, to put it utterly bluntly, fucked up. We failed you both. What Hess did happened without my knowledge or the Director's. Had it not been reported to us by outside sources, we would not have even known. I find that fact unacceptable."

You knitted your brows together, all three thought-processes trying to puzzle out what he could mean. Who else knew? Someone in that hallway, maybe? No. You couldn't believe that. They'd all stood there, watched as the trio had shoved you into that locker and nearly killed you in the process. If any of them had half a soul, it'd never have been five days before you got free. You would've been let out immediately, surely. In the back of your mind, Uncertainty stirred as if to say something, then didn't.

As you think on this, you heard Brandish ask, "What sources?"

Piggot picked up for Armsmaster. "Two of her classmates."

You frown. She's telling the truth, but that doesn't make sense. You can't think of anyone in your grade who would've tried to stick up for you, except maybe Greg Veder. And he didn't have enough spine or good sense combined to fill a gnat's thimble. He probably hadn't even realized you'd been stuffed in there, and if he had, he'd probably have never said anything. "That can't be right," you murmured quietly.

"Which classmates," your father asked.

"We were first alerted of the incident by a Miss Madison Clements. She gave a full confession of what occurred, one which was, later, confirmed by a Miss Emma Barnes, after her recovery."

Now you knew something was wrong. They were stating flat out impossibilities, and your power was telling you it was truth. <Uncertainty.> He didn't respond. <Uncertainty!>

<Yes, Taylor?>

Dimly, you were aware that the conversation was continuing without you in the background. <Something is wrong with my powers. The lie detector one. It's wrong.>

<Taylor,> he offered, mollifyingly.

<NO! What they're saying CANNOT be true. There is no possible world in which those combination of words can amount to a true statement. So it's getting it wrong. I want to know why.>

He was silent.

You felt your chest heaving at that. <TELL ME IT IS WRONG!>

<Fine.> You can practically taste the offense in the refined demon's voice. <It's wrong.> You could hear the shrieking dissonance of every syllable and every sound in that statement. Fuck. It was working, wasn't it? Just.

"HOW?!" You didn't realize how angry you'd gotten until you heard the half-strangled sound that passed for your own voice. "How in any possible world can that be a true statement?"

Piggot looked down at you, seeming disappointed somehow. She sighed.

"Because it is. Without Miss Clements' late-night phone call, we'd never have known something was happening at the school until the next day. Until," she trailed off.

"Until what?" You demanded.

Piggot's lips drew tighter together. "Until it would have been too late for Miss Barnes."

"H...what?"

"Miss Barnes was found in the halls outside your locker in possession of a pair of bolt cutters, buried under a million-strong swarm of ants. If we had arrived much later, if Panacea had not been on her rounds that day, then she would likely have died, and we would likely have been unable to verify Miss Clements' claims."

What?! Emma? Buried in...oh, God. In ants. This...this was your fault. Your...your power. You'd called out for help in there. Uncertainty hadn't been the only thing listening, had he? You blinked, trying hard to keep from crying. You'd never meant that. Had you?

"Had it not been for Miss Barnes' testimony, and the evidence she provided, we could not have acted decisively to arrest and detain Miss Hess on charges which included what she did to you and violating the probationary nature of her Wards membership."

You scowl, trying and failing to make Emma turning herself in make sense. You...you just couldn't do it.

"That," Brandish cut in, "Doesn't explain why we're here rather than at the PRT Headquarters."

The Director nodded. "The reason for that is simple: as of 0400 hours this morning, Shadow Stalker has escaped PRT custody when the prisoner transport taking her back to juvenile hall was attacked by the Empire 88, in an attempt to free the villains Othala and Rune, who were being transported alongside her." Her lips tightened. "Whether you accept the apologies we offer or not. Whether you can forgive the errors we made or not, we will not permit a third such mistake to cost either of you any further than you've already lost. Thus, we formally request you permit yourselves to be kept in protective custody here at the PHQ. IF you should still be willing to join the Wards, we can take this time to carry out your joining procedures. If not, we can at least register you as a hero or rogue as per your preference and, if desired, conduct rating tests for your powers. As to the location: It is the single best-defended site in the city, the last place Miss Hess would consider going, and if those aren't sufficient justification on their own, as of 0500 on the day after the initial incident, Miss Clements has been unable to be reached and as such is currently considered a missing person."


You weren't sure you could process all this.

Sophia a h--
Emma nearly--
They--


You felt numb and in pain, drowning and caught in the midst of a desert whirlwind all at once.

You shut your eyes and thought, furiously, even as your heart ached.

ooo

Infernal Conundrum
Arc 2, Emergence: End



ooo



+9 XP (+1 for update, +8 for 16 updates in the arc)
Voting options to come.

 

[Putting this up since it's one of mine, but tw: allusion to suicide.]

Interlude 2.E: Ripping off the Bandage

Emma Barnes opened her eyes and was confused to be presented with the alien topography of a strange ceiling. Working her tongue against the cottony roof of her mouth, she glared up at the speckled squares of the institutional-patterned panel-roofing. Her eyes felt vaguely gummy from sleep, and she still couldn't manage to get rid of that awful, cottony dry-mouth. She knew she'd been doing something important before...however she'd gotten here. Something...she frowned, looking around to try and puzzle out where she was and how she'd gotten there. She yelped and scrabbled half-way up the bed's metal headboard and wall as she caught sight of the frizz-haired girl standing at the side of her...hospital bed? Why...why was she in...Oh.

Emma's face fell as she finally got a hold of the recent past. Right. The hospital. She'd run into a stream of fire ants. Because they were swarming the locker. Taylor's locker. The one she'd helped trap her in. The one she might've...Taking slow, deep breaths, Emma tried to calm her racing heart. After a few moments, she looked up to the girl at the bedside, then around for a doctor, a nurse, her family, anyone. "I...um. Who," she started but was cut off by the girl.

"-am I? Panacea. Healed you."

"Where is,"

"Your family? The doctors? Your victim?" The freckled healer's glare intensified to the almost murderous as her voice lowered to a hateful hiss by the last word, and Emma felt a pit opening beneath her, vertigo sending her slumping back onto the bed.

Her victim. She...Panacea knew about Taylor. Oh...oh, God. Was I too late? "I-is she," she started, only to be cut off again.

Panacea's eyes narrowed, and she bit off the words, like just speaking with Emma was making her feel tarnished somehow. "Dead? No. No thanks what-so-fucking-ever to you, she survived the sick goddamned stunt you and your two friends put her through. You almost didn't. Her dad almost didn't survive finding out about it. Or that she got kidnapped right after."

Emma closed her eyes, grimacing as the cold thought of having nearly taken Taylor's other parent away from her stole her breath. She hadn't...she didn't mean for it to come to that. She...but Panacea wasn't done speaking yet.

"The only reason either he or you survived is because you got lucky. Lucky I was there. It's self-evident you've been through puberty, so I know I don't have to explain how potentially lethal that fucked up little trick you pulled on her was. That was the kind of sick nonsense I'd expect from the Slaughterhouse Goddamned Nine, not a teenager. So I want you to understand the full fucking weight of what I'm about to tell you, because I have never said it to a single human being before, and I hope I damned well never have to explain it again.
"I have healed super-villains before. I have healed people that were basically monsters in human skin at Endbringer battles, because when it comes down to it, even the worst criminal's survival is justified when they're fighting the Endbringers."
"So when I tell you that I have never been ashamed of having healed someone until today? Until I found out I'd healed the person who did what you did to her? Until you, I had never been ashamed of having healed anyone. So when I tell you not to come back here? That if you decide to have some sort of cry for fucking help or whatever the hell it is, that I won't be healing you? Know that I am entirely and utterly fucking serious.
"And if you decide not to act out or off yourself? Then you'd better damned well figure out something to justify your continued existence, because if I'm honest? Whoever I would've healed if I hadn't had to heal you? I'm pretty sure, short of Jack fucking Slash, they couldn't possibly have deserved it less than you did. So don't even think of wasting my time a-goddamned-gain." Her shoulders heaving, the girl, who gave the absurd impression--one that should have been funny, but was somehow only more shocking for its incongruity--of a mouse on the warpath, stalked out of the room.

Emma curled more tightly in upon herself. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. She didn't want to cry. Didn't want to be this weak. She wasn't, like, the same weakling she'd been. She couldn't be. She...if she was this weak, then all of it...everything, every last petty act of oppression, and that, even, every desecrated memory, every betrayal of trust, all of it had been for nothing. For no damn reason.

ooo

Making her way down the hall, Amy Dallon seethed inside her mind. She felt guilty for telling the girl off, and she felt worse for what she'd done to her. Still, people had worse periods sometimes than other times. If Bitchface McGee back there had worse cramps for her next few, well, it wasn't like Panacea could or would do that, now was it? And, more importantly, maybe knowing that was in store for the bitch would keep Vicky from losing her temper with the girl and doing something everyone involved would regret.

Now if only she didn't feel like she'd been a complete and total bitch in the process. She sighed. She probably shouldn't have stormed off without remembering to tell her that she was being released but...fuck it. The doctors or nurses would. Probably. She couldn't bring herself to care what happened to someone who could do that sort of thing to someone else. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be her problem anymore.

ooo

Part 1 of possibly 2 of Emma's Interlude. It's short, but that's in part how much trouble their respective voices gave me. Angry canon Amy is not a fun headspace to put myself in, especially because it's a familiar one in a lot of respects.

 

Interlude 2.E.2: Emma -- Of Ladders and Lunacy



Panacea's words still chased themselves around Emma's brain. She'd already cried herself out hours ago. She'd tried to deny them, but it didn't help. One after another, she'd thrown objections in their way. The blunt fact of the famous healer's words broke down and battered them to pieces. They simply ignored them and flowed on undiminished like a tidal wave over a line of sandbags. And when those waves of self-loathing, cold fact, and horrid guilt ebbed away, she found a little less of her left. Every single time. The belief that she was showing strength went first. If she'd truly been strong, then why would she have changed her mind? Why would the idea of Taylor dying have scared her so much? If Taylor was weak and Emma strong, then she shouldn't have cared if Taylor died. But she did, so the strength she thought she'd had had abandoned her, just as she'd abandoned Taylor in that locker. Or...fuck. Or it was never there. Whether truth or illusion, it'd dissolved and drained away, curling away with a sickle-sneer and a skirl of cold contempt.

Next she'd tried to tell herself it had been meant for the best. She hadn't meant for things to get to that. She had just wanted Taylor to fucking fight back for one goddamned time! This had all started because she'd wanted Taylor to show Sophia the strength she'd known her friend had possessed. She'd just wanted Taylor to step up and join her as a survivor, even if she'd had to give her something to survive. Again the healer's words sundered the attempt at justification. The attempted justifications had come one after another, and none of them had worked. There was no justifying what she'd done. She'd reached out and, day in and day out, carved off bits and pieces of Taylor. Her tongue had been worse than any knife that way. More effective by far. Taylor hadn't been a survivor because of her. Taylor had been a survivor despite what Emma had done. All Emma's supposed attempts to get a reaction out of Taylor hadn't done a single thing. And...worse...she'd come to enjoy them. To...feel good about tearing the person she'd been closest to in the world into shreds and tatters, into scraps and remnants of who she used to be. Gone was her bright smile. Gone was the babble of excited and ecstatic enthusiasm. Her favorite motor-mouth friend had...it didn't matter that she'd survived. She was there in body, but Emma had...had...fuck. She'd killed everything essential about her. In every way that mattered, she had killed her best friend. Sure, a Taylor was alive, but her Taylor was gone. Forever.

She made herself get out of bed. The tile floor was cold against her bare feet, and the hospital gown she wore just made the chill worse. Walking over to the window, she looked out at the dreary, icy rain coming down. She hated the glass in the window then. Wished it wasn't there. She deserved...she deserved that kind of weather. Deserved to..to drown in it. Freeze. Fall? Maybe. She...she didn't deserve what she had. Laughter forced its way out of her throat at that thought. She had nothing left, but she didn't deserve even that. She'd...she'd go to juvie or to jail. She supposed she deserved that. If not worse. Would it be different, if they hadn't made it? Should it be different because they'd made it? When they shouldn't have, was the fact that Panacea was there to save them...she shook her head, furious at herself. No. Panacea had been right. She'd tortured her best friend and enjoyed it. She was a monster.

She felt her self-loathing and rage build inside her. It built and built and there was nowhere it could go. Nothing she could do to get rid of it. No way to rid herself of it. It hurt. It ached in a way that she had nothing to compare against. She deserved that, too. She couldn't handle that. Baring her teeth, she lashed out with a fist against the wall. It hurt, so she did it again. And again. And again until her knuckles had left speckles of red and the skin on her knuckes was torn. She flexed her hand. It hurt, so she made herself keep doing it. She stifled the laughter that threatened to bubble loose again. She wasn't sure she could keep from crying if she let that out. She wasn't sure she'd ever stop if she started.

She'd nearly gotten back to the bed when a loud thump just above it made her jump, a chill that had nothing to do with what she was wearing running down her spine. Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Emma clambered up onto the bed, looking up at a ceiling panel that had gone slightly askew with the impact. Clambering up onto the bed, fully aware of the ridiculousness of her circumstances, she reached up on her tiptoes to lever up the far corner of the tile in question. With no small measure of shock, she only managed to keep herself upright by immediately latching onto the thing that fell down sudden as a slap and smacked her in the face.

Why is there a rope ladder dangling from inside the ceiling?!

ooo

Infernal Conundrum Part I: One Hell of a Wake-Up Call: END

Next:

Infernal Conundrum Part II: Hell is Other Exalts: START

 

Arc 3: Imago


Imago 3.P: Preludes and Nightmares



You are in the warm, enfolded in the dark. You cannot move, and the ever-present sickly-sweet scent of decay is the only sense you have beyond the bitter taste of bile, until suddenly it isn't. The dark and cramped confines of your cage fall away as does the awareness of the agony in your skull when, like a thousand-thousand constellations dotting the night sky, tiny blips of awareness kindle within your mind. Simple things, a million and more strong army, coming at your command. You had been all alone, but how could you ever truly believe that? Your servitors/subjects/children are everywhere, and each is a part of your awareness, each of their tiny minds completely obedient to your mental call. You cried for help, expecting none, but they came anyway. You do not feel relief; no joy or excitement fills you at this. As well thank the sun for being green, the desert for being endless. No, it is but right and proper that you call and they obey.

A great wrong has been perpetrated here. You have been tormented and imprisoned without cause or reason. An act of madness, of chaos, hateful and malign, has occurred. And so your tiny soldiers, individually insignificant but mighty taken together, swarm and charge the, to their view, behemoth form of your attacker, besieging the flesh of the architect of your betrayal. They die in droves, your loyal multitude, but you are not sent to sorrow. All is as it should be. Many die that the whole may prosper, and your tormentor is driven to her knees, then again to the ground. Your loyal horde swarms the flesh of your fallen foe, and you watch with logical dispassion as bit by tiny bit they strip your enemy to bone. You feel every fragment of flesh part, taste every bit of blood and bone before your scuttling horde departs at your command. Not one scrap of flesh or a single crimson hair remains.

Reaching out with your mind's touch, the padlock on your prison spins rapidly through the proper sequence before clicking free, your mind-hands pulling it loose as you step out from the bloody bog-filled cell you'd become trapped in. You feel...changed, more than you'd been. Looking down at the flensed skeleton of the one you'd once been proud to call sister you feel...a passing sort of sorrow, one which cracks then shatters into so much sirocco-scented sand, blown away on a dry, quiet, coppery breeze. You stare long moments more, unable to remember why you were so intent upon this...thing. This utter insignificance. Turning away, you breathe in, the bones eroding to dust which fills your lungs with clean, clear air, that you might ignore the charnel reek of your freshly empty cage.

You turn, distantly aware of your little crawling corps of soldiers continuing to chase down and consume those transgressors who'd fled the scene. They failed at their appointed roles. They did not oppose the collapse of order. They ignored the mandate of their roles, and so they perish, as individually insignificant as the insects in your tide of ants. A bitter taste of salt brings a scowl as you reflect that you have been merciful. Death by a hundred-thousand cuts is too quick when it is carried out by a thousand-thousand troops. Betrayal deserves suffering. Ah well. You are magnanimous in victory, and they are permitted to merely die, affront to your majesty though they be.

Your vision shudders to the side as a swift splintering sound fills the sudden silence in the hall. Ponderously, with tectonic menace and gravitas, you turn to face the source of the attack. At your feet, a splintered quarrel from some paltry pointy stick launcher falls forlornly, its pathetic powerlessness finding no purchase past your impervious, imperious power. You blink in languid largesse, allowing the impertinent lunatic moments more to live, even as you scent the air. Your generosity ignites, utterly eradicated, rendered unto ash, the treachery inherent in the stink of shadows and betrayal suffuses the insolent insurgent who dares to stand before YOUR GLORY. Exploding into action, you batter down the mad miscreant, sending the tenebrous traitor crashing through walls of burnished brass and blocky basalt. They scream, an echo of your own agony as an emerald apocalypse ignites their insides. HOW DARE THEY?! YOU ARE THEIR QUEEN, AND THEY WILL KNOW THE FULL WEIGHT OF GLORY THAT YOU EMBODY. You were merciful. You permitted them to survive, to submit to your sovereignty and they spat spite in their ruler's face. As slick keloid scarring and blood-pouring lesions open across them, you put them from your mind. Their punishment has been seen to. Their folly is at an end.

Finally, you turn the attention to the last of your dear, intimate enemies. Most playful of them all. Adorable, really, in her faltering flailing attempts to show you her affection. Fortunate for her you are such a persistent paramour. She lets out a cry, and it rends your ears with so thoughtful an agony, that you just must pursue her. She flees, and you feel your fleet feet accelerate, the joy welling within you spreading to embrace the surrounding city, sharing the lovely, loving caress of your aching affection, feeling a shiver of satisfaction as the stone sublimates silently to a cloud of trailing crimson in your wake. You pursue your adorable admirer, the sharp, stabbing delight of her cries at your little love-bites and flensing kisses returning your affection and more. It is with a sudden smile that you at last bring your relationship to its inevitable climax, your flaying affection finally freeing her before you forget whatever it was that brought you here. Odd, that. Hm. Ah well! Someone out there is putting quite a lot of effort into making an awful racket. Those sirens are so utterly shrieking, you just must show them your appreciation of their attempts to tease you. You dart from the ruined shell of the school, your satori-self expanding to spread your slicing touch to a--

ooo

You awake with a thundering heart and a convulsing stomach. Scrabbling your way to the 'guest room's' trash can, you just manage to retch into the receptacle. You're there for several horrified and heaving moments, trying at once to sob and be sick, before your stomach starts to settle, and you finally manage to weep. A sharp and sudden light lances in, silhouetting the panicked face of your father, seeing the sick on your chin and in the can, his features contort with worry and a helpless rage before settling into a fierce and fervent compassion. Before you can even get a syllable of your protest stated, his arms are around you and he's clutching you close, his tears dripping against your hair as your own stain his pajama's shirt. No words pass between you, yet much is said despite the silence.
ooo

Infernal Conundrum Part 2, Act 3: Start

 

Imago 3.1


The day following that nightmare, you awakened groggy and stiff, with the taste of vomit still in your mouth. Staring blearily around you, you tried to figure out where your bed had gone. A sudden and stabbing horror knifed into you as you realized you were in a holding cell, the walls heavily embedded with an absolutely stunning variety of tinker-tech. A solid third of which you were tempted to try and take apart to figure out why it worked. You could clearly tell how it worked. It's just...it shouldn't. Not that way. Still, as pleasant as a distraction would be right now, you felt it as tears began to burn your eyes. As you were about to spiral into a cycle of self loathing and fear over the nightmare, Uncertainty cut off your train of thought.

<Taylor! Shhh. It's alright. It was a nightmare. It wasn't real. Emma is alive, and none of that happened. You're at the oil rig with your father and the Protectorate. You didn't kill anyone.>

<I...U-Uncertainty? What...what was that?>

You moved to the door, grimacing at the reek of your own vomit-scented breath.

<That, Taylor...was, well.> He paused for a long moment as you spit into the trash can to clear the taste of puke off your tongue. Blech, crab and cafeteria food do not make a good smelling mix on the way back up. <That was a nightmare, and perhaps a caution not to tread the precise path of the Titans you can learn from.>

You froze a moment, shuddering. <You mean that's...a-an actual risk? That these powers might turn me into into a monster like that?!>

He didn't say anything for long moments, clearly marshaling his response carefully. <If you are reckless? If you are not careful in how you choose to emulate them? Yes. There are titanic charms that will change the way you think. It is possible for that to lead you to become someone significantly inhuman in their thoughts.>

Your stomach threatens to rebel again as you make your way to the shower room the heroes have made available to you. <That...Oh. Um. H-how do I prevent it?>

<There are a variety of ways that have been attempted, but if I'm honest...the best method is likely to ground yourself. Spend significant time with mortals that you trust. Make friends. Find confidantes.>

Confidantes. People you trust. The last person that fit both of those you had was...well, Emma. Or Mom. A part of you insisted that was proof enough that you couldn't, shouldn't trust anyone that heavily. They'd just abuse it. You'd loved Emma. She'd been one of the three anchors of your whole world. Last of the three to abandon you, a bitter and angry part of you insisted. And at least Mom and Dad didn't choose to do it. You chewed on your lip at that thought, it was angrier than you were expecting and you forced down the vitriol by insisting that no, neither Mom nor Dad had betrayed you. They hadn't abandoned you at all.

And Dad...you shouldn't blame Dad. He'd been in the same boat you were, but his first anchor had given way before yours: like you, Dad had three grounding loves in his life. For him, it was you, your mother, and...you weren't sure whether to call the third the Union or the city. Maybe both? The city had failed your father by breaking before you were even born. When your mother was lost...you were left with just each other...except you had Emma. Well, for a while anyway. No, you couldn't blame Dad that it hit him harder, and neither of you had been in a fit state to support the other then.

Still...you weren't even remotely comfortable with the idea of your father being your sole confidante. The fact that you'd never been the Daddy's Girl type to begin with aside, if Emma's betrayal and the subsequent splitting of your life at the seams had proven anything to you, it was that it was a bad idea to have any single point of failure in your emotional support system. Of course, you might have made a start at building a new one. Surely, again presuming you could trust him and all your operating theories and assumptions held up, Uncertainty counted as part of it where he had relevant experience. And you had gotten contact information from both the Dallon sisters. Plus Lisa seemed, well, surprisingly nice for a supervillain. Maybe she was like Mom? After all, your mother had been part of a certain feminist movement in college back before the whole thing went all 'Lustrum is Good; the Penis is Evil!' and started cutting body parts off of people. Maybe you could help her if it turned out she was in over her head?

You shrugged. That was a concern for the future. For now, you desperately needed a shower and for your mouth to not taste like yesterday's clearly brilliant idea to eat seafood for breakfast.

ooo



You'd been sitting on an outer section of the Rig's platform, legs dangling over the edge as your arms were threaded through a safety railing, your bare feet dangling dozens of feet above the dark, foam-capped waters of the bay far beneath you. On another side of the platform, the one facing the city, there was no doubt far more activity going on. You...you didn't want to be around people, so you'd gone to a corner of it facing the old trainyard and the boat graveyard. The sea breeze sang and howled softly against the rainbow-shimmer soap bubble of the Rig's force field, the hum the field itself reminding you of the subtle thrum of better-made high voltage wires in action. You kicked your legs listlessly, trying to ignore the way they swung nearly a full arc too far due to the way your new joints worked. The knowledge that this was your new normal sat rough, awkward, and heavy in your head, precisely like a large, oddly shaped rock in the nicer sort of purse. It added strain, refused to settle comfortably inside, and there was the added worry that its coarse, uneven exterior and its weight would lead to it damaging the things around it, or worse, the bag itself. Except you'd never been the fancy purse type. It was your mind you were worried about it damaging irreparably.

You wish it'd never occurred to you to drop your disguise to take that shower. It had ruined the whole thing. First, the shower stall had gone from pleasantly spacious to cramped, not having been designed explicitly to accommadate your nine-foot frame. And then you'd stood there like an idiot, looking at the dab of shampoo in your palm as it occurred to you that you were wasting time and shampoo. You didn't really have hair anymore. And that meant that the part of a shower you most looked forward to, the careful massaging of your scalp as you took care of your one good feature, working in shampoo and then conditioner, well...you couldn't do that anymore. Before you realized it, you were crying again. Tears running tracks down your cheeks as the hot water did likewise. You hated it all. You hated how cramped the shower stall was now, you hated how being naked made you confront how much the changes had stolen the only thing you actually liked about yourself while exaggerating every single thing you hated about your appearance, with the sole exception of your former belly. Rushing through the rest of the shower you no longer looked forward to or enjoyed, you rushed back to your room (cell) and got changed into what rudimentary clothes they'd managed to scrounge together that almost fit you now.

After picking at bits of the breakfast the cafeteria offered and making your way outside, you'd wandered a while before settling for calling to ask Amy if she would come out to the Rig if she got a chance. To...well, to be a friend. You felt more than vaguely guilty about asking that of someone you'd essentially just met, but if you didn't do something, it was likely you'd just spend the afternoon stewing in your own anxieties. It took a while to figure out the best way to call her, since you'd left the note with her number in your room at home. Eventually, you'd settled for borrowing the use of a phone and getting the information from a helpful staffer. You'd thought to ask one of the heroes about it, but...you hadn't decided yet how you felt about what you'd learned yesterday afternoon. You weren't really sure what you felt about them, if you were honest.

Still, between that and the home phone number Brandish had given you in case you needed to reach her about the case, you managed to get hold of the Dallons. A tired male voice had picked up the phone after the third ring. "Hello?" He managed to murmur.
You blinked. Everything you'd heard of them was that they were mostly a very...high energy family. Well...Brandish and Victoria were. Huh. Maybe Amy took more after her father, Flashbang, then? "U-um. Is this the Dallon residence?"
"It is."
"I...um. Is Amy there?"
There was a pause for a moment, and a rattling as the phone was set down for a moment. After a moment's silence, then a short, subdued conversation, it was picked back up. "Hello?" God, she sounded...she sounded as tired as you felt. "Um. Amy?" You kicked yourself. Of course it was Amy.
"Yes?" She seemed wary, "Can I help you, ma'am?"
"Ma'am?"
"Yes ma'am?"
It takes you a moment to figure out where that came from. "Oh, right. Because I sound older now. Um, no. No ma'am necessary. It's, um, Taylor? We met a few days ago? Either late Monday or early Tuesday?"
"Oh! Right." She went quiet. You couldn't help but reflect how awkward this whole thing was. It was vaguely mortifying. "What, um, what did you want?"
You wince. "I...I was hoping you might have...um. Have a chance," you sigh. Forcing your nerves into abeyance, you went on. "Have wanted to hang out? Or...have time to talk later? I," you hate the way your voice quavers at that. "I've had a really, really screwed up week. If you're still willing, I was hoping to take you up on that offer of friendship? Please?" You weren't begging. Only just, but still.
There's a pause again. "Um. Today's a school day, but it is Friday. I can," she's clearly weighing options. "I can probably get Vicky to fly over with me after school if you wanted to hang out with us."
"No!" You hadn't even considered saying it before it was out. And now she's going to think you dislike her sister. Smooth, Taylor. "I...please, just...just you? It's...I found out a lot of stuff about my old best friend and...in. In a lot of ways, Victoria feels...um." You let out a breath. How the hell do you tell someone their sister reminds you of the person who tortured you for a year?
<You could try just saying it, you know.>
<Oh, right. I'm sure that will go over wonderfully. Hi, Amy. I wanted to get you here alone, because while your sister is really cool and nice and has done nothing that wasn't awesome in the time I've known her, she sort of reminds me of the person who made my life a living hell for the last year. Please tell her not to take it personally?>
<Hmm...yes. That should suffice quite nicely.>
You groan, irritated with Uncertainty's obtuseness.
<I am not obtuse. If you don't want to be direct, then find a tactful way to say it. Insults are uncalled for.>
"Taylor?" Amy seems agitated. Of course she does. You trailed off mid conversation. And...it's a school day. You're probably risking her being late.
"S-sorry. Victoria has been nothing but nice to me, it's just...she's kind of intense, you know? I...was hoping to talk with someone more my own speed? If...if that's not a problem."
"Oh. Um, right. Sure. I'll ask her to drop me off, then."
"Okay." An awkward silence stretches. "Um. Thanks. Good, uh, luck with school?"
"Huh? Oh. Right. Right. Gotta go. Um. See you later."

Since she'd agreed to come by when she got a chance, you'd settled in to watch the tide roll against the shore, staring balefully at the boat graveyard. It sat there, orange and brown, malevolent and ugly as a freshly-clotted scab, hideous and oozing a slow trickle of lifeblood away into nothing. All told, it was a perfect symbol of what was wrong with the Docks, with the Bay. It felt...awful. Insurmountable. Like you'd sworn to cut a path clear through the side of a mountain by hand. There was just so much that'd need to be fixed before you could even pretend to say you were fixing the city. It was awful. It was absurd. Here you were, you, who couldn't even fix her relationship with her (former) best friend, and you'd sworn to fix the city. You were so far out of your depth it wasn't even the slightest bit funny. So far out of your depth that you couldn't even tell which way was up by the bubbles anymore. No real plan came to mind as you sat there, letting the familiar comfort of the salt tang of sea air combine with the thrumming vmmmm of the forcefield to lull you into a sort of meditative distance. You were still sitting there, watching the waves roll between the rusted out husks of the Bay's hopes and future when a hand on your shoulder jolted you out of it. Looking up into your father's worry-etched face, you gave him your best attempt at a smile...which was pretty abysmal, all things taken together. Apparently Amy had arrived and was waiting for you.

ooo
All trainings proceed by one interval to 2/?. I'll list total progress as soon as I figure out what the heck I was doing for training times again.

Approaching Amy

[ ] Write in: stunt an approach to the conversation with your (potential?) new friend.

What form, thanks?

[ ] Respond in Kind
-Lisa left you a message on PHO. Maybe leaving a message there would be best, given you remain at the Protectorate's base.
[ ] Try to call
-You'd have to get a phone number first, of course.
[ ] Try to meet up
-After you get to go home, of course.

AwkWard--How are you going to approach the Wards?

[ ]Your place?
-Convince them to let you meet the Wards at Wards HQ, since if you're going to end up working with them you'd need to be familiar with it.
[ ]Or mine?
-Have them come to meet you on the Rig.

+1xp