Mettle [Worm AU]

Mettle
1.1
Protection
​

It was the first day after winter break. I think that’s when things started. Or at least, they went worse than usual. I was paranoid, in class. Nothing had happened. Nothing too worth mentioning, at least.

Class was odd. I couldn’t properly pay attention, trying to feel out what was going on. The botched attempts to surreptitiously glance around were met with snickers and wide-eyed innocence. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I didn’t like it. What was happening? They had just- stopped. They were planning something. It was a certainty, and I wasn’t in on the horrible joke they were going to pull next. All I had was the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong.

I didn’t go to my locker immediately, I had no need for any of the books there. It was a learned reflex, not putting anything I wanted to keep in there. A pang of emotion as I was reminded of the flute. I hugged my hoodie close, wishing.

My classes had been nicer with it. I could clutch it, and feel like my mother was there, helping. I could hold it, and feel that memory, keeping it as a buffer between myself and them. I couldn’t do that now, but, things were better. Things weren’t quite as bad. That was something I told myself, needed to feel right now. Even if I was waiting for the other foot to drop, I couldn’t live in utter paranoia like this. Even if it was justified. Almost everything I needed was in my bag. I just had a few things I’d need later in the day.

I walked to my next class, moving through the hallway, trying to avoid contact, moving around and through people. Staying as small as possible.

Then I saw her in the hallway, and shuddered. I stopped walking, enraptured, horrified.

“What are you looking at, Herbie?”

That was my first mistake. Staring a bit too long at Sophia. Herbie was a “cutesie” nickname. A way to jumble my name, and say it incorrectly at the same time. Madison’s idea, I think. It fit her image, her style. They had started it a week after I came back.

Honestly, it was hard not to stare. The thing mouthing words into her ear, made up of so many shadows, misting and reforming all around her. It faded in and out of view. Now, it was so very clear. I could see it out of the corner of my eye, even as I focused on the ground.

“Yeah, that’s right, Herbie.” She brushed past me. If by brushed, you meant shoulder check. She didn’t push me too hard, though. Jagged visions flitted about at the edge of the shadow, coming into stark relief. One, of someone hitting her, an open hand across her face. I could take pleasure in that. Another, a staring at metal boots, electricity arcing between two points. What were these? A smile, or a grimace, spread across the shadow’s mouth, forming a beatific expression where the lips stretched too far.

Then it was back to stretching its lips, moving them in ways that could possibly be words, next to her ear.

I flinched, looking away. The first time I had seen it, I had thought Sophia had developed powers specifically to torment me. No one else could see it. Then, I had seen the flickers of images across it. They were weak, gauzy things, spread across the surface of the shadow.

It wasn’t exactly something I wanted look at, but it was there, and the pictures were never pleasant ones. The longer I stared, the more explicit they became. Staring at Sophia Hess wasn’t generally a problem I had to worry about, though. It seemed like she was some kind of gang member, from the images. Blood on her clothes, in one particularly splintered image, spread across the specter’s back as it opened and closed its mouth, wrapping around her.

Was that something to report to the police? As far as I was concerned, I could try, but there was very little proof I could bring to the table. ‘Hello, is this the police? I’ve been seeing a terrifying shadow encompassing my bully, which shows me images that might be her killing people.’

‘Yes, Taylor Hebert, we’d like you to come down to the station and meet with these nice people who have some anti-psychotics for you.’

That sounded about right. Why was Emma with Sophia, if Sophia was a gang member? Merchants, maybe? Had she gotten in with them? Well, at least I knew it wasn’t the Empire 88, but the ABB wasn’t necessarily out of the picture. It was annoying, mystifying. I wasn’t sure why, or what had happened.

The facts remained that Emma Barnes, Madison Clements, and Sophia Hess had all but pulled off on their bullying campaign. Instead of continuing after the flute, instead of going after me, pushing on my buttons, they had stopped.

Well, they toned it down.

I had even kind of made an acquaintance. Jane, uh, Philips. She apologized. I wasn’t sure whether it was them putting her up to it, if they were teasing, or what. It wasn't a close friendship or anything. I didn't want to talk about anything too close to me, or spend hours chatting or anything. I was too wary for the other foot to drop. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, because this had to be another of their plans.

It had been before winter break, we had talked some. She wasn’t talking to me today. I think she had class, but-

I really wanted to believe her. But I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t something I could just let go of, or cease thinking about. I had to look around, unsure and unhappy. I couldn’t just let something like this go.

I approached my locker. There were people around it. I wasn’t sure if it was the normal crowd or not. There seemed to be more people than usual. Maybe it was just the hustle and bustle of it being just after spring break.

I opened it. Someone pushed me from behind, I stumbled, getting a good look at what was inside. A note, with two words on it.

‘I KNOW.’

Stopping myself from looking around was a feat of control I barely accomplished, staring at the thing, picking it out of the back of my locker with shaking hands. I crumpled it up, shoving it into my pocket.

I stumbled into the bathroom, approaching the mirror. My glasses were askew, and I fixed them, putting them back into place. My too-large eyes, my hair, pushed out of the way, my face pale, too pale, I couldn’t breathe properly. I tried to control it, but it felt like the room was spinning around, and I walked into the stall, shutting it, locking it, sitting down.

How? How did they know? I knew it could only be one thing. There weren’t many things it could be, I didn’t precisely have too many secrets.

I looked down at my clothing, at my shoddy jeans. They weren’t in great shape, worn and ragged. Then my watch. The sheet metal, not quite inside it, a framework of lines and semi-opaque grey. The baggy hoodie, the oblong object, limned by silver, carefully cleaned, painstakingly repaired. It had been easier with my power, removing the bad, fixing, pushing, hours spent. Hidden somewhere it could never be touched. Not by them. Only me.

It had taken me almost twenty minutes this morning to push the flute into my hoodie, melding it into it. Every moment had been worth it, to know that I could do this, to have this piece with me. Had someone seen me? Was that it? I ran down a list, trying to figure out who it possibly could have been. Was this their prank? Had they led everything up to this moment, just to screw with me and leave me guessing? Maybe they didn’t know anything at all, and I was just guessing.

There was a knock at the stall door.

I breathed in, cleared my throat, and tried not to think about things. “O- Occupied,” I spoke, my voice a quivering mess.

 

1.2​

The index card slid under the stall door, kicked there awkwardly by a shoe. It slid about a half foot into the stall before halting on something wet that I did not want to touch.I looked down, trying to check and see who it belonged to. Maybe I knew, and could figure it out- but they were out the door by the time I had managed to adjust myself into a good position to look.

‘DOCKS 1 AM
COME IN COSTUME’

Shit. Fuck. Those were the most prominent thoughts that went through my mind. Was this some sick joke? If they knew about the costume, they knew about my powers. What would they do if I didn’t go? This certainly wasn’t the high school drama I was used to, or the bullying I was used to. If this was the terrible trio, I was fucking ready to give up.

What even was this? What was I supposed to do? God, was their handwriting deliberately terrible because I knew them? Was it Emma? How could she have figured it out? No, there was nothing that would have given it away. I had never brought the flute outside of home. I had never used my powers other than the thing I had seen on Sophia. I wasn’t even sure if that was my power or not. Maybe it was just her directed malice for me.

I gingerly picked up the index card, not wanting to keep it, but it was potential evidence if it was just another prank. As far as pranks went, this one was more potentially dangerous than most. How was I supposed to gauge this one? Should I bring along a recorder or have police on standby or something?

The same problem, there again. It was a non-solution, because I didn’t want to reveal that I was a cape. I wasn’t sure about how this really worked in cape law. They hadn’t threatened anything. I could always not go. That was an option. I didn’t really view it as one, but it existed.

Having come into the bathroom to calm down, I could definitively say that I had not achieved my goal, and perhaps it had become worse than before. Not really a perhaps. I dropped the index card into one of my bag’s pockets, unlatching the door and opening it.

Class was an afterthought. I went, and there was very little I paid attention to. I took notes, but I was trying to take in the rest of the class instead, attempting to get a grasp on a likely person to have done this. Math went about as well, and my desk was only nudged, a pencil falling. It was the result of one of Emma’s cronies. I wasn’t sure if I should even write that down as bullying or an accident.

The bus ride home was a waterfall of thoughts, constantly thinking and trying to figure things out in a more concrete sense. There was a certain routine things had gone through, and even if it had been hellish, it had made sense. Now, I was left scrambling for answers.

I didn’t open my notebook, just checking it to make sure it was still there in my bag. Maybe Sophia had grabbed some pages of the old one when she had torn it apart and thrown it away? Would that have coincided with the lessened aggression?

No, it had come before that. I was fairly certain I had retained all of the contents in the notebook as well. The bus halted and I looked up, jolted from my inner turmoil. Pulling myself to my feet, I picked up my things and exited. It was about a block’s walk, and I tried to push those thoughts out of my mind for now. I could continue these thoughts once I’d arrived home.

I pushed open the door, heading inside, going upstairs, my belongings in tow. They fell by the bed, and I fell on the bed. The flute dropped from my sweater almost immediately. It was a certain amount of pressure on my mind to keep it in there, much more than the sheet metal around my watch.

Learning things about my power took time, because I don’t think I had sufficient resources to actually use it properly. The ability to extradimensionally carry a weapon of some kind came to mind, but that took a large amount of prep time, a lot of concentration, and a sort of pressure that never really went away when I “contained” an item that didn’t fit.

Looking what I could up on PHO, it was a mess. Information that wasn’t outright speculation (which was usually deleted) was not helpful to me. I wasn’t a tinker or anything. I certainly wasn’t making anything stronger by putting it in there or anything. I didn’t feel any stronger or faster. Okay, maybe I was faster from running a good amount, but I don’t think that was really related to my power.

But, “combining” things that were similar was much, much easier. I had some sketches and ideas for a costume, but I didn’t have the money. So, random pieces just sat in my closet.

At least my power made it really convenient to switch costumes? I had a couple ideas for armor that was similar to my usual wear.

Experimenting with my power was weird. Things that fit together weren’t a chore to keep together, and they felt better, more consistent. I could put them together faster, and manipulate them better?

I went to my closet, pulling out the old undershirt and the pieces of scrap metal I’d cobbled into a very poor facsimile.

I wanted a bulletproof vest or something, but I wasn’t sure where I could get one or afford one without it being traced back to me. Stealing was obviously an even worse idea.

Pushing the two together took only a minute and a half. It still looked like a shirt, and it was just as light as one. I made the decision that it was rigid, as hard as the metal that “overlaid” the shirt. Then I made it a normal shirt again, and only I could tell the difference. The decisions were likewise easier when the shapes were similar. They were all around getting faster, though. It was something that I had always been somewhat aware of when I had repaired the flute.

I had combined it with a candle, heated and bent into the same way it was, and had roughly carved it into the same shape. The two had melded together with ease. This, of course, came after a long time of trying to figure out what the hell I had done when I had grasped two shirts while thinking a bit too long on current events. Suddenly, they were one, along with the hangers.

The amount of failed attempts numbered in the hundreds. Ranging from trying to push dishes into each other, screwing up and having one pop out, breaking on the floor, to an attempt to just combine a piece of cardboard in the vague shape of a shirt to a shirt. I never knew that my power had real-world applications like less convenient ways to get clothes over mannequins until that point.

It had taken weeks to get these pieces of metal, mostly scrap, rusty crap. Buying wire wasn’t something that would be traced back to me, so that’s what I bound it together with.

God, this was stupid. The costume wasn’t done, I wasn’t ready. I had projected at least a few months before I could get the rest of the pieces, if I wanted to stay under the radar. And avoid tetanus. The sheet metal around the watch was intended as a potential piece for my legs, some kind of shin guard. I had barely gotten almost anything needed.

What I wouldn’t give for some better stuff.

The aluminum bat and the large piece of rebar took a couple minutes. I could choose to make it hit with the weight of the latter, while having the weight of the former for me, and only me. It didn’t make sense. I guess powers didn’t really make sense at to begin with.

My thoughts returned to the unhelpful topic of who it could be. I was honestly still wary of it being a sick prank. Lure me out at 1 AM, to what was a pretty dangerous place at 1 AM.

Screw it. I’d go.

But how would I go? Would it be as costumed as I could get, did they know what my power was? Because if it was legit, I’d be exposing my identity- I scoffed. They already knew who I was. Okay, work backward. If they wanted me down by the docks, and it wasn’t a prank, they might not be sure. Worst case scenario, they knew I had powers, and knew my identity, and wanted to expose me or lure me into a trap.

The best response would probably be to go in my “armored” clothing, but not show anything regarding my potential powers or what I was planning on doing.

...The best response was to stay home and not do anything. If it was them, especially.

But what if there was another hero out there, who wanted to help?

I almost laughed. ‘I KNOW.’ and ‘DOCKS 1 AM COME IN COSTUME’ did not precisely engender my trust. It could only be another hero if it was someone at Winslow. Maybe a gang member, even. Shit.

Should I go to the PRT? Adults hadn’t been helpful in these kinds of situations. That much was certain. I couldn’t rely on them, and I couldn’t even trust them to respond. They could even have me suspended or arrested for joke calling or something.

Fine.

“Fuck it.” I muttered, setting my equipment on the bed, picking up the pepper spray, and then the chunk of chalk that roughly resembled the pepper spray, melding those two together. “I’ll go as myself, but I’ll check before I meet with whoever it is.”

 

1.3​

I made sure dad was asleep before heading out. I pulled on the hooded sweatshirt, flipping the hood up. It made me look like a walking scrapheap when I focused on it. The translucent “armor” wasn’t going to stop any bullets. I knew that, and wanted to try layering my defenses. Undershirt, shirt, sweatshirt. Bike shorts, jeans. I didn’t have enough to armor the jeans, yet, so only the bike shorts were armored.

Look at me, calling these things armor, without sarcasm. At least they’d stop a knife, the way they were. What should I be doing with my power, and how could I use it to become a hero?

That was the question I’d often asked. Continuously, at times. I could become a kind of hidden brute. I could potentially take hits, but if something pierced through that, I was just as squishy as anyone else. I didn’t have anything that made me better at fighting criminals.

I could strike much harder than my frame belied, with a pseudo-super-strength. There were thoughts of mass-producing my armor, (with upgrades to bullet-proof vests in shirts or something I don’t know, it never got to that point,) maybe trying to sell it to the PRT, but those were swiftly dashed. I couldn’t. The pressure on me grew if they weren’t in contact. The pressure grew the further away they were. The closer they were, the better I could breathe, and make decisions on how they reacted to the world.

My thoughts of joining the Wards were serious ones. My abilities seemed as limited as a Tinker’s without resources, except without a hoverboard or a superbike. It seemed kind of unfair in terms of power differential.

Not that I was complaining too much. At least my powers let me carry around sixty to eighty pounds of armor, with all of its effectiveness, without it even existing. I did need to concentrate, though. Not on the armor, really. It was close enough that it was just like keeping aware of my breathing. In and out, keep eighty pounds of sheet metal from phasing into reality, in and out.

No, the real annoyance was the baseball bat. It was merged with a bunch of aluminum foil I’d shaped into a vaguely bat shaped vessel, as well as the rebar. It was also inside my sleeve, bending to fit. I was the true hodgepodge of capes. It wasn’t the first time I’d melded three objects together, but it was the first time I’d screwed with the triple object and manhandled it this much, while trying to pay attention to other things. It didn’t stay as a reflexive assembly, it strained at the edges, and I kept having to make sure it was still all in one place. I needed to figure out why. That was something for later. At least the muffled crinkling it made was better than stiffly walking along with a bat up my sleeve.

Still a mistake. I should have found something like a wiffle bat.

It was an hour into my so-called covert stakeout, given that I had left at around 11:30 PM, and it was no wonder I was rambling and thinking idly about my power.

Why? Because my mysterious messenger could go shove it.

Had they even ever been to the Docks? They were huge. A mess of shitty spots, with gang members and crack whores in the best of times. I hadn’t been there much, mostly skirting the lines and staying on the boardwalk. I’d only ventured out here twice before, trying to get a grasp of the area and where the fringes were, in order to have a good place to potentially start my heroing.

Maybe they had meant one of the nice cafes, and we could spend the night regaling each other about our heroic to-be deeds. Or shop. With my nonexistent cash. Why yes, I’d like the whatever-brand, please. Ring it up for me over here.

Actually, I kind of had a great way of stealing those now, didn’t I? Although I was pretty sure it would be easy for loss prevention to catch me. Oh no, this girl went into the dressing room with five dresses, and came out with none, even though she didn’t have a bag and doesn’t look like she’s wearing tires.

Fuck.

I was stalling. I knew it, but I was trying not to admit it. I had gone up the stairwell of the building, and was now leaning against the ledge, looking downward. It was close to the edge of the Docks, where all those people went from being glam and glitter to crack and, “I’m not very good at improvising.”

I wonder if there was any way I could have some kind of shock absorbing boots. Was that even a possibility? I kept staring down, wishing I had bought some donuts or coffee or something. If I stored food in other food, could I make it taste like all of the merged food?

Missed opportunities. God, how did cops do this stuff? Gang members, some drug deals, and one or two prostitutes, maybe? Nobody that really stuck out or anything.

“Hey, you okay?”

Holy shit-

I spun around, keep concentrating on the bat, there was a guy floating down to the ground behind me. Red costume, shield on chest. “H-hi-”

PHO said it was rust red, but I had seen a lot of rust in gathering the metal and that seemed less rust and more maroon or something-

“Hey. You alright, miss?” I’d looked up the Wards, so Aegis was one that I knew. Wait, did he go to Winslow? Was he my messenger? I didn’t know he had some kind of weird, creeping fog around him. That wasn’t something that PHO or any Wiki had reported. No, he couldn’t be my messenger, he’d know who I was, there wasn’t any recognition in his voice.

“I- I’m just waiting for someone.” I stuttered the words out, acutely aware of how stupid of an excuse this sounded like.

“At twelve forty eight AM? Do you have a ride home, or..?” He wasn’t accusing me, but his voice held some degree of concern. “The Docks can be dangerous, especially at this time of night. I really don’t recommend hanging around.”

The fog swirled around him, revealing that it was made out of worm-like, arrow-shaped heads, all moving and squirming. Squiggling lines as a much larger part of them. They faded out, slowly. Okay, fuck. It’s definitely me, and I’m crazy.

“Yeah. I know.” I didn’t have to pretend or lie, I was already scared about being around here, and now worried for my own mental state. Was there anything on how powers screwed your head up? There was an asylum, but this wasn’t that bad, right? “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, but please, be careful. An ounce of prevention, and all that.” He shrugged. “I’ll swing by after patrolling a bit. Good luck, and I hope your friend shows up soon.”

He waved, and flew off into the streets. I was distinctly jealous.

I continued to wait.

Being stuck with nothing else to do, my mind went back to more power experiments, because I couldn’t do them right now, so why not think of potential ways to use it.

More time passed, more people walked by. Fortunately, it was a pretty quiet night. Maybe because the wards were patrolling, and nobody wanted to screw with them? Or maybe it was just that-

Wait.

That person looked distinctly uncomfortable. Bundled up in a hoodie, glancing constantly from side to side. They didn’t move with the stride of confidence or with a hand in the position to grab a weapon. They just looked scared. They walked onward, peering into alleyways, looking around.

If I went down the stairs, I’d lose them by the time I was down there. I took the fire escape, clambering down and making a decent racket. I let myself hang from the last bit rather than dropping the ladder, falling down with a weighty thump.

I raced out, and the person booked it like a frightened gazelle, blitzing into an alleyway. I followed after, sprinting. I skidded around the corner, and it was a dead end.

They were there, and they had a cannister in their hands, and it kind of looked like it was aimed at me. Okay, definitely aimed at me, there wasn't exactly anyone else here. But, even in the shadows, I knew who that was. I'd spent enough time "working" with them.

“Greg? Is that you?”

 

1.4​

Wow.

Just, wow.

I couldn’t keep the incredulousness out of my voice. I’d been worried this entire time about Greg. What the hell? Some pieces didn’t really fit, but I shoved those away for later. I definitely did not want to show up to class tomorrow morning having been pepper sprayed.

His face went from scared, to enthusiastic. I didn’t consider myself a particular expert in expressions, but his face was so openly expressive. I could tell the differences between the vagaries in Emma and Sophia’s faces, but that was more a necessity than a skill. Greg was almost painfully open, in a way I knew my face wasn’t. It made me briefly wonder what my expression looked like right now. I didn’t particularly feel anything aside from irritation. One in the morning, to meet Greg Veder. Maybe it was a prank. “Taylor! I uh, you came! You are a parahuman!”

His face positively lit up. I was feeling more tired by the minute. Keep the bat together. “How did you know where I was? Oh, man you must have gotten thinker powers or like flight was that you that hit the ground behind me? I was running but I thought it was an ABB or like Hellhound or like Lung or something it was-”

“Greg.” My voice was exasperated, mixed with a half-cup of stern. The only heed he took from this was that he was in a library, and he set off again in a hushed whisper. His enthusiasm meant it was scaling back up to normal volume after the first sentence.

He hadn’t seen my powers. That was the conclusion I’d drawn. Why did he think I had powers? Was there something different? The bullies pulling off? I didn’t think I’d acted any different.

“-Oh sorry wait why don’t you have a costume? Have you not made one yet, or are you a changer or like, did you get or- or maybe you’re a trump, did you get grab bag powers? Oh my god, you did, didn’t you, you’re like- oh wait you could be a tinker or or a stranger, and you wouldn’t need a costume you’d-”

My thoughts had gone from panicked ‘oh jeez, Greg Veder could be outing me’ to ‘please be quiet I want to go home and fall asleep’. With that in mind, I had a pretty clear path in mind. “Greg. It’s one in the morning. I came out here because I didn’t want another rumor about me.”

He stopped speaking, trying to parse this in his babbling explanation about why the Wards were better for a tinker than a stranger, and why I’d be better off, “But y- you showed up here, and you’ve like had a trigger event and everything, with all of that and, they weren’t going after you as much and I thought I could help and-”

“Trigger event?” I asked. Bewildered. I didn’t have to pretend, my ignorance had been handy twice tonight, my gear, zero. Maybe I should prepare even less. “What does PTSD have to do with powers?”

“Oh you don’t know, it’s when you passed out with your, uh, flute? That’s what they said it was, right? And everything, and you, you had it then? It’s the worst moment of your life and you get powers then but sometimes it’s not as bad and-” His voice was less confident now, a little more halting.

“And you thought you could, what, commiserate with me about it? The fact that they’d been bullying me for a year until I passed out from stress?” I was a lot angrier than I thought I’d be. It was annoyingly difficult to keep my voice under control, and I hissed that last word, trying to get myself back under check. I think it worked. Not really. But it made me feel better to see him cringe.

“Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean that and I talk a lot and kind of ramble and you were well, we’re- you’re-” His hands pointed at me and himself. I got the message.

“Greg. I don’t have powers. I came out here because I was afraid that if I didn’t they would blame something else on me. I thought it was the people bullying me.” I paused, breathed in, and then continued. The harder part. “I don’t see you as a friend. You haven’t been much of anything to me, and I don’t fault you for that. You’re not someone who would stick up for me. Please don’t start trying when you think I’ve got superpowers.”

He shrank inward. God, it was like I’d just slapped him across the face and then punched him in the gut, while screaming like a drill sergeant.

It felt like a weird mixture of vindicating and terrible. I couldn’t deny that Greg was nice.

Nice wasn’t really what I wanted when it came with as many subclauses as Greg’s nice did. Subclause 38a: Greg forfeits all recollection of Taylor's existence when Sophia Hess, henceforth referred to as Sophia for the purpose of general expedience, goes to trip Taylor. Memories of being ignored for the sake of not acquiring more trouble were very fresh. Every time someone ignored something bad going on, or asked if I was okay without actually having any intent behind those words or some way to help just to say the words and make themselves feel better it just pissed me off and-

“But they told me that you totally had powers, and you were, you were-” His voice was trembling now, from scared, to cheerful, to a sort of doubting despair. I checked around him, to make sure I couldn’t see any sort of-

Fuck.

“What do you mean, they?” I struggled not to phrase this in a way that would make him start up again, trying to figure out how to say non-implicating things. I did not want to give him more hope that I had superpowers. “You mean, the people that have been bullying me?”

“Uh, well,” The look of panic in his face was literally the last thing I wanted to see right now. Fuck.

“Who did you talk to, and what did they tell you? How are they going to make my life even worse, Greg? You dragged me out here on a school night, on a conversation with my bullies? Oh, fuck. Fuck.” Sophia. If Sophia knew, wait, shit. My room. What did I have in my room right now? What was there that could incriminate me? My journals. My notes. Fuck. Was there anything in the closet? Maybe some leftover metal I hadn't pushed into shape yet. “Did they know Sophia, Greg? Were they someone Sophia or Emma might know, or might be friends with?”

“Y-yeah, I guess they could have been.” His fantasy had been ripped away, and I felt a very small pang of regret, but this was way worse than Greg’s cape groupie sidekick dream. “Uh, but you were talking with one of Madison’s friends, right? Th-they took the note into the girl’s bathroom for me.”

I was running out of expletives I wanted to hurl. Actually, I did want to throw up. I felt legitimately nauseous. “I- fuck. Greg, I only did that because they weren’t doing worse things while they did it. I was still keeping track of their- their shit.”

“Oh. I’m, I’m sorry?” His voice was questioning, and I had no real reason to doubt him, honestly. Greg was oblivious. Maybe painfully so. Definitely so. “I’m sorry.”

There was more feeling and regret to it this time, maybe he’d finally realized what they would do. At least to some extent.

“Bye, Greg. Please leave me alone.” I was so, so done. I wasn’t sure what they could have done to my room, but I was just so tired of it all. Turning around, feeling nauseous and exhausted, I started the long walk home. At least I had kept the fucking bat intact.

 

1.5​

Why didn’t anyone punch Sophia Hess in the face? Did she have a home life, or did she walk home through a portal to hell? Enquiring minds wanted to know. Fuck, I couldn’t even make good jokes about it. I continued the long trek home.

It was chilly, and I was cold. My head hurt. I felt thin, flimsy even. What could they have done to my room with the knowledge I’d be out? Would Dad even wake up if they went in through the window?

Maybe if they made a lot of noise. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe the people that had shown a vested interest in making my life a living hell before suddenly backing off were just waiting to drop that other foot on my face.

I thought I’d taken reasonable precautions.

Fuck. Fuck.

I wish I had a better, Carrie sort of power. Something to absolutely destroy everything around me. I really wanted to punch things, but I knew that would just result in an angry bruise or maybe some broken bones or something.

Still kind of wanted to do it.

Approaching the door was a chore, having to move so that I didn’t make the steps creak, not just the bad one, but trying to silence them all. Then getting to the door to the house, pulling it open slowly, pushing upward so it didn’t go creak and would stay in the frame properly without the sound of wood grinding against wood. I closed it behind me and stood at the stairs for a long moment.

I didn’t want to go upstairs. I didn’t want to go to my room because if they had been in there, that was the last place I wanted to be, the only place that I could go to not be near them and have some form of solace in my life and it was all just fucking gone if they’d been there and violated it and- and god, I was so damn tired of having them be ever-present. I wiped tears away as they welled up, because fuck them.

It was so fucked up. I was tired of being tired. I didn’t do anything to them, why couldn’t they just leave me alone? Sitting down on the steps, I just stayed there, trying to breathe and get myself under control. If they had ransacked my room, they had plenty of time to do it. I’d been out for more than three hours.

My arm jerked downward, with all the weight of the rebar behind it. It slammed into the step before I was able to stop it. I couldn’t even control my power properly. I giggled, and it was as light as the crumpled foil again as I raised my palms to my eyes, grinding them in.

“Taylor?” It was Dad’s voice, sleepy but concerned. “Is that you?”

I took a moment to compose myself, clearing my throat. “Yeah. It’s just me, Dad. Sorry. Wanted some water.”

“Alri-” His yawn was monumental. “Alright. Goodnight.”

Walking up the steps just made that feeling grow inside me, my queasiness, and the hope that nothing happened. That everything would be okay, and it was just a shitty prank that they didn’t follow up on.

I opened the door to my room, and immediately closed it.

Fuck.

What the fuck was I supposed to even do? What could I do? They knew I couldn’t go for help with this. Screaming seemed like a good option. I couldn’t tell Dad about this, though. Why? Just, why?

I opened the door again. My things were strewn across the floor, my bag forcibly torn open, with what looked like holes ripped into the bottom. Wet and sticky. My books were strewn across the floor. Some were torn up, some were wet and mushy. The pages were stuck together, what wasn’t covered in orange was smeared in ink. Someone had taken my pens and snapped them over them. It was hilarious. They’d only destroyed my school stuff. Everything else was pristine. Mostly. I know I had closed the closet door, but I also couldn’t stop giggling as I sat down on the bed. I tried to breathe, but it was coming through in sobs.

I knew it was gone. My notebook. That was coded. They could probably break it. Maybe. But the flute was gone again. Of fucking course. Nowhere was safe.

It was amazingly thorough.

There were pages on the floor, tossed around like confetti. It was two in the morning. I closed the blinds to the windows, locking them and putting a makeshift drop bar in place. I took the bat of aluminum foil out of my hooded sweatshirt, letting it split apart into its component pieces after straightening it out. Meticulous, careful movements. I placed each individual piece inside the closet, then began stripping each individual piece of clothing. Hooded sweatshirt. T-shirt. Undershirt. Pants. Bike Shorts. Pepper spray.

Then, I began the process of “stripping” each meld, allowing each to slowly fall apart. I did not want to risk pieces separating into me. I was not quite sure how the process worked at times. The metal was placed into the closet, and I closed it behind it, aware of how flimsy a shield that was.

Next, I pulled the shirt back over my head, and began cleaning. First, the pages. Then the books. I got a garbage bag, and some duct tape for my backpack. It was three in the morning.

So much was deliberately unsalvageable. There was so little I could use. They took the flute again. The dented, carefully polished and reformed mess, pieces bent back into place. It would never play like it did before, I knew that. I didn’t have the money to get it fixed up to that particular standard. But, I had fixed something, and protected it. I wasn’t sure why that was so vitally important to me.

What a mess. I wiped whatever stains were on my legs off, and pulled the pants on, heading out with the garbage bag. I went down the street to the dumpster and threw it in. I didn’t want to think or do anything, but I had to fix things up. I couldn’t let Dad see this. I went back into the house, slowly walking up the stairs, putting just enough energy into my steps so that I didn’t make too many creaks.

My nose was running, my eyes kept tearing up. I went to bed, because I didn’t want to be awake anymore.

 

1.6​

Waking up was a fuzzy piece of half-assed contentment that was very quickly soaked by the memories of yesterday. Well, I guess it was "today". I was kind of resigned to it. What would protect me from them? Maybe I’d take my sheets and wear them around, melded with about three hundred pounds of iron. The spookiest ghost, with the most deadly cotton sheets around. I wondered what would happen if I clipped Sophia or Emma with it.

Heh. What time was it? I was still so tired. Not the weary, mechanical tired of yesterday, although that still lingered as I thought about the events that had taken place. Some elements of fear, resignation, and hopelessness. I tried to make a joke about that, but I really couldn’t. I just wanted to roll back to sleep.

It was seven. That was way too early for four hours of sleep. I wanted to go back to dreaming and not caring. Was I avoiding school? Yes. Absolutely. I didn’t want to see their smug faces, preening, have them taunt me about the fact that they could do whatever the fuck they wanted, whenever the fuck they wanted, and drag me around like I had a damn leash. If I hit Sophia Hess with the bat and broke her ribs with a single swing, would she get the hint? I felt like it would be a much better option. I’d feel like I’d accomplished something, at least.

Everything I did seemed to just put me back another couple paces, and everything I tried to prepare for just… didn’t work. It felt so. Fucking. Unfair.

“Taylor,” There was a knock at the door. “I’m heading out, there’s breakfast on the table, grab a bite before you get to school, alright?”

I could have said it then and there. No, maybe not. I’d made up my mind, when I’d cleaned it all up. What could I do?

“Taylor? Gotta get up.” Another rap on the door.

Fuck school. “Yeah, Dad. I’ll be up in a sec.”

I affected a yawn. Didn’t have to fake it about halfway through. What could I do? Should I go to school? I could just close my eyes again, and not care until whatever o’clock it was when I woke back up again.

But, I didn’t want to let them win. Maybe it was useless. Some kind of twisted sunk cost fallacy that was deeper than the Mariana trench. But I didn’t want to let them win.

“Okay. I’m up.” Thoughts hounded me, and I couldn’t not think them and think about them. What they’d probably done to the flute this time, what they could do to me-

Fuck it. Fuck them.

I opened the closet door. My room wasn’t safe to keep my stuff in. Nowhere was safe, and they’d proven that. Violated my privacy, just to show that they could, just to hurt me.

“Thanks for breakfast, Dad!” I called, adding the enthusiasm into my voice.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart!” I think he was even happily sincere. It was nice, to hear him be happy, at least.

I pulled out the rusty plates, putting them on the bed, piece by piece. How long did I have until the bus? Fifteen minutes. My undershirt was tossed on top of one pile of metal, then my shirt was tossed on top of another. Bike shorts over there. Watch here, metal piece there. Like a demented hobo’s model kit.

Plenty of time. I pushed, centering the shirt into the metal, deciding what it would be. I changed my underwear, taking a look into the mirror and god, I looked awful. Bags under my eyes, face too pale, a brand new zit just left of my nose. Yeah, no sleep and no shower after all that shit would do it. The whole nine yards. Emma would have a field day. She wouldn’t even have to try. Whatever. I jumped into the shower, shivering briefly before scrubbing myself down, not bothering with my hair. The entire process took less than two minutes, with me distinctly aware of my melded objects pulsing in the back of my mind.

I dried off, flicking any stray wetness from my hair before beginning the process of pulling on the melded clothing. Underwear. Bike shorts, undershirt. Shirt. Hooded sweatshirt. The pants were still normal, remaining a casualty of the hurried “costume creation”. I didn’t have the materials yet. Glasses back on.

Eight minutes. Downstairs. My duct-taped bag with a few pencils and a notebook in it. It was so light it was absurd, after having carried all my books in it. It felt like I had forgotten something and needed to go back up to get it.

Dad had made breakfast. Some of those little sausages, egg, toast. He was trying. It made me feel guilty for not trying, and paradoxically not want to try, because I couldn’t do better.

Fuck them. I knew that I shouldn’t feel this way. These niggling little feelings made it hard to not want to just fall into bed. It’d be easier. I’d have much less in the way of negative experiences. Honestly, I deserved it. I deserved a bit of break, and I’d just stay somewhere they didn’t see me and I shoved that egg angrily into my mouth after skewering it with a fork. No.

No, no, no. I could run away. I could always run away. I could screw things over, make Dad disappointed. That was always a route I could take. But I could fight back. There were things I could do. I couldn’t let them break me.

I could wear armor to protect myself, now. Let Sophia break her fist on my stomach and something like two inches of steel. Oh no, she must have punched a locker. How could I have broken her hand?

The thought gave me a bit more pleasure than I was really comfortable with, but I was more okay with it than not.

I couldn’t protect my mind as much as I could protect my body, and that thought was oddly comforting. I wasn’t sure why. Dish into the sink, quick scrub with soap and sponge, rinse, rack, out the door.

Five minutes for the bus. I checked through my bag one last time, looking through the pockets. Maybe they hadn’t gone through everything, maybe there was still a remainder of school sundries. I patted it down, looking through the pockets until I froze, unlatching it and peering in. I hadn’t really checked it yesterday. If I hadn’t- I closed my eyes, tossing the knife into the grass. I really needed to get steel for my shoes so I could stomp things. How fucked up was Emma? How fucked up was Sophia? Madison? They were trying everything, and holy shit.

Bus was here. I raised my head up and stared forward defiantly, stepping through those hissing doors. I could not let them win.

 

1.7 ​

Emma was smiling. Good for her. Maybe she could find other hobbies. I wondered if she’d keep smiling when I slammed my iron-melded sleeve across her face. Would that be worse or better than bringing a knife?

“Taylor, I didn’t know you had the flute repaired. How sentimental of you!” She watched my face. She wanted a reaction out of me.

I attempted to walk past her, my bag jostling, every movement a reminder that I didn’t have anything left of my school supplies. Courtesy of Barnes, Hess, and Clements, Attorneys at Make Life a Living Hell.

She moved in the way. “What’s wrong, Taylor? Don’t want to talk? No sleepovers?”

Her face was annoying. That carefully managed face, makeup pristine, “It’s not like you have anything in your room anyway, I guess.”

I moved again. She stayed in the way, smirk widening. “What’s wrong, didn’t get enough sleep?”

Deep breaths. I closed my eyes, and swayed a little. I felt like I was falling for a moment, feeling like I could just lay down and rest for a while. It’d be nice in the dream.

My mother stroking my hair while I laid on her lap. Reading to me about how Lucy felt frightened, but inquisitive as well. Explaining what inquisitive meant, poking me in the stomach as I giggled.

“It’s just like you,” she’d said. “Keep asking questions when you don’t know what something means. I want you to understand, and enjoy it, alright?”

“Alright!” I had chirped, and she had continued reading. I had asked about mothballs, about what melancholy meant. She changed her voice for each character. Later, I’d read Lucy’s part, while she read the other characters.

I was a very truthful girl, and I knew that I was really in the right.

But Emma could be spiteful.

I opened my eyes, and smiled at her, my slightly too-wide mouth, doing my best to give her a toothy grin. “No. I guess I didn’t. Can you move, now? I’d like to go to class.”

Her knowing smile turned into a sneer. “Sure. Go ahead.”

She tried to shoulder check me as I went by. Her grunted bit of pain was music to my ears. Whoops. My bad. My hoodie acting like rigid plate armor hurt you? I was so sorry. Maybe you should leave that to Sophia. I was so tired. Maybe I could sleep some in Mr. Gladly's class.

“Excuse me.” I said, continuing forward. This time, she stayed silent.

---​

Of course it was Mr. Gladly that they told. It made sense, and I was an easy target. Creepy loner, bullied, and he knew it, even if he was too cowardly to do anything about it. It was far too easy to tell. He kept glancing at me, a bit wary. Was he scared of me? I almost laughed, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

The only thing that made him actually do something was a popular girl telling him she was afraid of the girl she had bullied to the potential point of taking a knife to school. Was he afraid of losing his position as a popular teacher?

Was he just going through the motions of responsibility? Did he only see me now that I was a potential threat? Before, he had been perfectly content to allow for ignorance.

There weren’t any group projects today. Today was mostly independent study. Gladly approached my desk slowly, his face supremely uncomfortable. How uncomfortable did I make him? I wanted to know, I wanted a metric for how much I’d bothered him and how much seeing me had bothered him when he’d just let things happen. I wanted to hear his excuses for letting those things happen so I could slap them down and tear into him.

“Taylor? Could you come with me outside?” He asked, quietly.

“Sure.” I picked up my bag, and he flinched. It was hilarious.

“Thank you.” He said, still talking in that soft tone. Was I a frightened animal too, now? Gladly began walking to the door, and I clutched my bag to me, following.

There was a security guard. Wow. They actually went and got a security guard.

“Someone-” Emma. Or Madison. Both looked sufficiently innocent to cry to Mr. Gladly. “-came to me today, and said that you might be- not happy.”

Wow. Might not be happy. Thanks. I didn’t know you cared, and I’m sure you’re going to rectify the situation by hearing my complaints, accepting my input, and immediately working on fixing things. Yeah, that sounds like you, you go, Mr. G, you’re the coolest.

“I’m not happy.” I echoed him, looking at him expectantly. “Sorry, could you clarify that?”

“Well, you’ve been slipping behind. You haven’t turned in your work, and you don’t seem to be taking notes in class. Someone came to me, and, ah, said they saw a weapon in your bag.” Oh yeah, like those E88 and ABB wannabes don’t take a shiv or something.

“I wouldn’t take a weapon to school. Feel free to check my bag. Pat me down. Whatever. Does this mean you’ll do something about the people bullying me?” My voice was monotone, mostly because any other tone was going to be anger. “But hey, if you pat me down, they’ll be making fun of me for that, too.”

He flinched again. I hadn’t really meant to say that. It was vulgar honesty, but I enjoyed seeing this useless person who was a “teacher” and a “friend”, but neither to me, receive some version of the truth. “Taylor, you can’t say that, it could bring some serious allegations-”

“Like? Like them putting glue on my seat, or destroying my books? Would those count?” Monotone. I was keeping my voice monotone, and it would stay that way. It would stay that way.

“Yes, Taylor. Those would be serious allegations. I’m not blind, I see that you’re not working to-” Mr. Gladly was more comfortable now, talking about the bullying probably meant to him that I wasn’t going to stab him. “-your potential. I know you can do better. Do you want to talk about the people bullying you?”

“Here’s my bag. The rips are from them. The juice stains are from them. I don’t have books in it anymore because they shredded those. Would they be expelled?” I asked.

“We’d be able to bring them to get suspended, with evidence. If they kept it up-”

“They’ve been doing it for almost a year and nobody has done anything. Isn’t this part of your job?” Monotone was good while it lasted.

“Taylor, calm down, I’m not your enemy, I’m trying to help.” He wasn’t my enemy. Mr. Gladly was just another person who just wouldn’t do anything, and would let people get hurt if he could be popular.

“Please just inspect my bag, and do whatever. People have broken into my locker, my bag,-” I restrained myself from saying home. “Can I go?”

Mr. Gladly went through my bag, flipping through each compartment, feeling out the inside. His hand came away sticky once or twice, and I shrugged. “They like giving me juice and soda. All over my stuff.”

“Taylor, we can go to the Vice-Principal, and Principal right now.” He spoke, “You can tell them about this, and-”

“And they’re careful enough not to leave stuff behind. Can I go? Are we done?” I had managed to go back to monotone.

“We have to start somewhere, Taylor.” He said, helplessly. Or maybe I was projecting. I wasn’t sure. He handed the bag back.

I took it. I wanted to make a snappy comeback, some angry parthian shot. I just didn’t see the point. He wasn’t going to start any time, and I wasn’t going to help him help the bullies have another reason to crack down.

“If you need to talk, my door is always open.” Mr. Gladly said, patting me on the shoulder. It was only cloth by the time his hand reached it, three levels of metal shifting back.

“Mm.” I opened the door, walking back into class. The whispering started almost immediately. I wonder what I had done this time in their little universes. Maybe I’d paid him off. Drugs? Sexual favors? All three?

Mr. Gladly came in after me, and immediately started back into his routine for the last ten minutes of class, talking about what we should be reading, what we could do to finish our homework easier. I didn’t bother taking notes. This really didn't matter.

 

1.8​

I left the class immediately after the bell rang, so I wouldn’t have to have any comments thrown at me, or have to watch Mr. Gladly’s eyes pass over me. They skipped past me like I didn’t exist any longer. It felt like I was furniture. Yes, Isaac, no, Evan. Then here’s the 1960’s antique showcase classroom desk and chair combination. We’re going to get it inspected, so just pass right over it and move onto the next person.

Sophia shoved me as I approached my locker and man that was satisfying to watch. Her using explosive force on my shoulder, which was now covered in layers of warm, comfortable, cottony metal. ‘Tunk’ was the sound the noise made. Her grimace briefly shifted toward discomfort before firming back into solid derision.

“Can I help you?” I asked. My voice was immediately controlled, but for the first time today, I wanted to laugh a bit.

The shadows wrapped around her as I looked at her.

It mouthed things into her ear. I could see from someone’s perspective, leaping through the air, off a building. The sensation was exhilarating and numbed, all at once.

Oh, right, her elbow was at my throat, pressing me into the locker. A lock dug into my back.

“What did you tell him, you shitty little worm?” Her voice was impressively controlled rage. I wasn’t aware she could growl like that.

I choked for a moment, struggling to keep an ingratiating smile on my face. I put my arms up, making it have the rigidity of iron. I held them there, preventing her from pushing further in. My strength was no longer the issue, it was her strength versus iron.

“Did you expect me to stay quiet?” I kept that smile on my face, because it looked like it pissed her off some more. “I decided to take pictures of what you did to my room.”

I probably should have, but who would believe me, the-

“Shitty little whore.” Sophia pressed in against my arms, and was unable to. I was certainly glad not to be choking any more than I was. “You did that to yourself, and you deserved it. That’s what all of them will think.”

I would love to have fifty pounds of anything on my shoes right now. Stomping down and breaking little miss track and field darling’s toes would be exquisite.

“You shouldn’t even be here. You should be where you deserve, in a fucking hole, crying to yourself about Mommy.” It just didn’t quite have that same bite when not delivered by Emma. “You look like shit, you’re a nerd, and you’re stupid to boot.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” It was almost mesmerizing to see this thing so close, images flashing. Holding someone at the edge of a rooftop. Hands, gloved.

Kicking a man in the stomach. He was curled up, her booted foot contacting with his side. There was something I wasn’t quite putting together. It was so close. It was hard to think, what with the arm pressing into my throat, the exhaustion.

“You don’t even get it, do you?” Sophia said, leaning into my face, her mouth contorted in a sneer, her brown eyes glaring.

“Oh. I get it,” I said to Shadow Stalker, “I get it.”

I opened my right hand up. She flicked her eyes over for the briefest moment, and I headbutted her. The images flashed into fast forward.

Firing a crossbow at someone running away. Feeling a weeping wound in a thigh, fear, bleeding out. More anger. Through a wall, up to the rooftops. Everything muted, things becoming indistinct.

Running was useless. Stupid. I couldn’t outrun track star murder girl. It wasn’t an option. But, she hadn’t used her powers yet. Why hadn’t she? Things clicked, made more sense. My window hadn’t been broken because she hadn’t needed to.

I turned and began sprinting away, pulling my hood up. I left my bag.

They had always been able to steal things from my locker. She didn’t need to know the combination. “You fucking little-”

My feet screeched to a halt, and I spun, wrapping my hands up in the cloth-metal. My head was turned to the side, as she grappled for my arm, throwing a punch at my face, half covered by the hood.

“Fuck!”

Her hand contacted with the hood, and I heard little snapping noises. Kind of like twigs. The hooded sweatshirt jostled a bit with the impact. She’d hit it hard.

“Fucking shitting little-” Sophia fell backward, clutching at her hand, keening a little bit.

She wasn’t stupid. If she hadn’t known before, she sure knew now. Things would add up. If the images were what I thought they were, she was willing to kill. How old was she? Why the hell was she willing to kill at fifteen? Maybe she really had been held back a few years. Maybe Sophia Hess was secretly a Marine and 24.

My head was throbbing where I’d hit her with it. I needed a helmet.

“Cunt!” Oh, hey, she’d come up with a new word to express her pain.

“Okay.” I responded, feeling remarkably good about myself. I wondered where she kept her Shadow Stalker gear. Maybe if I kept looking at the shadow pictures, I’d see something about it?

“You’re-” she panted, then continued, “-a fucking crybaby who should stay in their place.”

Another image, this time of her above a an alleyway, looking down. Watching.

Her pain tolerance was amazing. I was legitimately impressed at her recovery. “Yeah. Your hand alright?”

I wonder if I could get arrested for breaking her hand with my face. Was that a thing?

Sophia moved- it was hard not to think of her movement as stalking now, and a shadow of a smile grew on my face.

“The fuck are you smiling about, Hebert?” Hey, she said my name right- her good hand grabbed at my hoodie, her foot lashing out and wrapping behind my leg.

Bugs. Bugs, all around her. None were touching her. But they could. In the air, on the ground. There was a vibration. Her heart was beating so fast.

Fuck. I knew I needed armor there. I stumbled forward, and her force dragged me down to my knees. I raised my arms in front of my face, and tried to protect it. Then there was a foot in the small of my back, pushing me down.

I really needed to learn how to fight. My momentum was arrested by making my hoodie act as iron once more, sending me forward with a jerk, cushioned by the under layers, which acted as their normal, cottony selves. It still wasn’t comfortable.

Rolling over, I threw my right arm out at her. It hit her raised arm with the extra weight and force behind it. She fell off me, going with it. I didn’t hear the horrid sound again, so I guessed there were no broken bones.

She was holding the crossbow to someone’s belly. I could feel her lips twisted into a smirk. Her other hand was gesturing to the side. There were people on the floor. Most had at least one bolt in them.

I definitely didn’t need her life story. I didn’t need to feel-- sorry for her? Angrier about her? Guilty? The images were a mixed bag. And she just punched me in the face. Okay.

“Ow.” I said, more for her benefit than mine. I was on the ground, but it hadn’t been with her full force, more of a jab. I realized she was testing my defenses as she straddled me, trying to hold down my arms with her legs.

Scared. Angry. Leg was cold. Stop pumping so fast, heart. Stupid piece of shit. Get here soon.

Shit, seriously? My arms were held in place, and she was punching me with her good hand. They definitely weren’t strong hits, and I could turn my head sideways to temporarily get her to stop, but she could awkwardly rain blows. My lips felt thick, and my face was burning.

“Sophia Hess!”

Then, it stopped. I leaned over to look. Hey, it was the Principal herself. Nice.

Letting my head rest against the floor, I slowly spoke through fattened lips. “Hello, Principal Blackwell.”