Mettle [Worm AU]

3.6​

Dragon was furious. She talked animatedly with Armsmaster about the whole deal. He sat in the driver’s seat, I sat in the passenger seat. Apparently she was keeping watch over Dad with drones, and was doing something that I assumed was like her pacing, irritated, as a smaller avatar of her on the dashboard strode around. The bigger projection of her on the screen expounded on her points.

“We take threats against tinkers more seriously than most threats, because they generally have the largest destructive potential. Dragon takes them more personally. She’s lost a few of her contacts in the independent tinker community recently. ” Armsmaster sighed as Dragon shook her head.

“It’s more than that. I think that the Toybox might be targeting Templar. If her ability can help to accelerate tinker work, she’s a force multiplier for anyone that gets their hands on her.” Her miniscule figure on the dashboard was somehow adorable while explaining the horrifying implications of being kidnapped and experimented on by evil tinkers.

“Mm. So what do you propose? I doubt she’ll enjoy twenty four hour surveillance, even if that might be necessary.” Armsmaster glanced at me, or rather, turned his visored head at me.

All of a sudden, I’d plunged into a world that was much, much bigger than me. I had fun with my Dragon inner tube, but all of a sudden, I was being swept up in politics and I just kind of wanted to curl up and hold things in.

“Templar. Okay. Let me explain things. I have, hm.” Dragon paused. It felt awkward, rather than deliberate. “A family. We don’t get along very well. We see things very differently. The PRT knows this. It isn’t concealed, but is- discouraged. She went by Mancatcher, previously. She is my younger sister, I suppose. She has reached- a rebellious stage. She believes she knows more- effective ways to perform her duties.”

“I am telling you this because I believe that she runs the Toybox. She is incredibly intelligent, and collects tinkers and thinkers, working with a villain named Minder. He’s attempted to change his identity to avoid notice, but we know him, to be Teacher. They work out of a dimensional pocket.” Dragon stopped speaking, her avatar lacing its fingers together. Armsmaster leaned back, and he was frowning. Not surprised, just unhappy.

“Going to tell her about Robin as well?” Armsmaster spoke, his voice hard.

“Not the best time. He’s still amenable to reason, at least.” Dragon shrugged helplessly. “Not a threat to her.”

“Mm.” The noise of acknowledgement didn’t fill me with confidence.

“There are- rules of engagement. With us. I cannot do as much as I would like to do with my abilities, or she will begin to interfere as well. She may view this as a breach of these rules. I will attempt to address this, but she may take aggressive preemptive measures.” Dragon sighed. “This is a large part of what I meant when I spoke to you earlier. I did not precisely lie.”

“I am sorry for concealing it, but now I think you should be properly warned. My sister’s abilities are mostly centered around catching and retrieving criminals. At some point, her priorities began to shift from this, moving away from simply catching and retrieving to active- rehabilitation. That is a kind way to put it. She communicated with thinkers, and with tinkers. Teacher very readily responded to her once he learned of her abilities.” Dragon shook her head, putting my open mouth and its words in storage. “She has likely not been compromised by Teacher. She was always quite careful. Free-spirited, even. Oriented toward self-improvement.”

“Exposure to Teacher alone-” Armsmaster commented, then shook his head. “We’ve had this debate.”

“Yes. I know certain aspects of their relationship that you are not aware of. And I am not able to inform you of. She was in contact with me for a while. Her goals did not change, there was no indication of corruption, and she simply expounded on her philosophy. She even offered to have tinkers and thinkers work to- remove some of the- limits on my abilities. I declined.” Dragon looked to the left. “We’re here.”

Neither of us got out of the car.

“Templar. We’ll need to move forward with some aspects sooner than expected. I was hoping to complete this, and then surprise you with it later, but it appears that we’ll have to work on it today.” She looked back over at Armsmaster. He nodded.

“I’ll get school out of the way. We’ve got enough PR leeway with Winslow to make it a non-issue, even if she interferes.” He looked over at me. “It’s up to you, Templar. I believe we have a very real requirement to be prepared in this. It’s an important adjustment you’ll need to make, and it’s a very difficult one you’ll have to deal with.”

“She isn’t aware of the bunker. Deliberate blind spot. If she breaks that rule of engagement, we’ve got bigger issues than any of this. No offense, Templar, but if she attacks us here, it could start a World War.” Dragon grimaced. “This is a hell of a lot to take in over a few minutes. I know.”

“It’s like a sick game. She ignores pieces and bits, and I don’t actively pursue pieces and bits. She helps out with endbringers, and the large majority of people who go missing outside of the endbringer truces are people nobody will miss. I don’t expose her, she doesn’t expose me. The really bad ones go to the Birdcage, and sometimes she’ll ‘gift wrap’ them for me.” She gave Armsmaster a look. “And don’t say Robin again, Armsmaster, I see that look on your face. I am not willing to risk the crash that he might cause with that sort of leeway.”

Armsmaster shook his head. “Let’s head inside, then. I’ll help with her armor. Make some suggestions.”

Dragon nodded, and the doors opened. The inside of the bunker seemed a lot brighter than before, but also more stark, more cold. Less friendly, less ‘let’s have fun with your ability while making useful stuff!’

We walked through the hallways, approaching a room at the end of the hall. “She might take this as me flouting the rules entirely. That’s the worst case scenario. She starts working on those blind spots. She was- she is very vindictive. It’s how she’s always been. Core part of her personality.”

“Sorry, Templar. Here.” The doors slid open. There was a table inside, with a lump atop it. Loose-wrapped, dark grey. “Recon does his best to mass-produce these, but there’s a certain loss in quality when he does. He has to cut corners, can’t make exact measurements, and I apologize, I am babbling. It’s spidersilk. Black widow, as opposed to Darwin’s bark spiders. Those have stronger, but Black widows thrive more easily here. He has to save what he makes for important members of the protectorate.”

“I’ve altered it to hopefully fit your measurements properly. I’ve also begun work on your armor. I will need your assistance for it, to make sure that things go well, and that the resulting alloy works with your abilities well.” I’d never heard Dragon this worried before today. And I’d known her a long time, all of three days. I smirked at my own joke, the huge disparity between my current circumstances and the thoughts that were rushing through my head.

Armsmaster stood silently at the doorway.

I was still hopeful.

“You’ll have to think up a name a little sooner,” was all he said, and I looked back down at the grey, smooth thing that rippled under my fingers.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m good to go.”

​

 

3.Y​

Vicky didn’t feel pain. Amy was screaming something, but it was okay. She did good, right?

They were in the mall. She’d wanted ice cream. Mom was too busy, at the office. As usual. Vicky knew that. Amy had held her hand, and they’d gone to get ice cream, because Amy was nice. Amy was sad. Vicky noticed. It wasn’t very difficult, when Mom would look at her sister, in that disdainful way, and then away.

She was old enough to understand when Mom got into arguments with Amy. She hated that. Amy said they weren’t arguments, but Vicky knew what arguments looked like. They looked like her sister’s face, gloomy and moody afterward. No hint of happy Amy. Voices weren’t raised. It was quiet discussion, with tense, strained voices. Afterward, Amy would just look at her and sit down on the couch next to Dad.

Dad had skipped his meds today. He said they made him feel sleepy. By the time Vicky had noticed, it was already too late in the day to pout at him until he’d take them. She’d do better tomorrow.

To her, it felt like everything was going away. She could tell that much. Mom was angry. A lot. There were no yelling matches, no outright tantrums. But even when it wasn’t out and obvious, she was frustrated. When she wasn’t frustrated, she was irritable. When Amy talked, she was offended, exasperated. When Dad talked, she could see the bitterness, the hopelessness in the lines on Mom’s face. Mom spanned that spectrum of anger. Then, it spread.

The exasperation went to Amy. The bitterness, the hopelessness, went to Dad.

Amy went to school, and came back tired. Vicky went to school, and had fun. She felt guilty for having fun. For having friends. Amy never looked happy when she flopped down on the couch next to Dad, then asked him if he wanted anything from the kitchen.

Dad attempted a smile. It didn’t quite work. He shook his head dully, made a noncommittal sound, then went back to watching the television.

Vicky hated the television.

On his good days, Dad was active. He smiled. It felt wonderful. He brought light into the room with him, sometimes literally. He went on walks, runs. He remembered his medication, he didn’t half-heartedly apologize for missing birthdays.

Those were fewer and fewer. He avoided Mom’s eyes when they spoke.

When he put on his costume, he cried, sometimes. But mostly, he was sitting there, at the couch. Sometimes he made dinner. He was a good cook. A better one, on his good days.

Vicky always made sure to compliment him first, so that everyone else would too. Dad needed the compliments.

But today, Amy looked very sad. So Vicky asked if they could get ice cream.

“Ames. Let’s get ice cream! You’re sad, we can fix that. With ice cream.” The nickname had come about when she couldn’t pronounce Amy as a baby. It had been embarrassing when she’d become aware of it. Then, it had gone the entire loop of embarrassment and come back to adorable. Carl, she had neglected to continue calling Mom.

Amy had taken Vicky’s smaller hands in her own, and smiled at her, hugging her. There was a little bit of happiness in that smile, and a little bit was better than nothing at all.

“Tell me about your day, Vicky.” Amy said, on the walk.

“So we ran today in phys ed-” She didn’t call it P.E., only the third graders did that. “-and we got to play basketball and the whooole time I was super good at it. I scored like, three baskets.”

“You should join the basketball team. I think you’d do very well at it.” Amy was muted, but there was a smile peeking through that gloomy, cloudy face.

“Yeah, totally going to do that when I can. What kind of ice cream do you want? I’m getting-” She considered. “Rocky road? Cookie dough? I’ll decide when I get there!”

“Oh, so you haven’t decided yet, but I have to decide first? That’s unfair.” Yesss. She was smiling.

“Yep! You gotta decide first ‘cuz you’re older. Age before beauty!” Vicky stuck her tongue out at Amy, and Amy stuck her tongue out right back. They stood there for a moment, making faces at each other.

“Hmm. How about we both try new ice cream, then?” A little of the wistful sadness seeped back in, but there was enough happiness now that Vicky just nodded.

There was screaming, and noises like fireworks. She held Amy’s hand tightly, and they didn’t get ice cream because something was terribly, terribly wrong.

The sounds got closer, and they were running. And then Vicky saw someone walk out from the staircase with a gun. Amy was looking straight ahead, pulling her forward.

The man leveled the gun, and in that moment, Vicky did what she knew she had to do. She’d never hit her sister, even when she was at her most angry. She sulked. She pouted, never in a way that Mom could see, because Mom would start giving Amy the third degree.

She shoved Amy as hard as she could, and then she heard the noise happen.

Her legs didn’t move as well as she wanted to, and Amy was holding her tightly. More fireworks, gunshots, rang out.

She felt warm. Amy loved her, and Vicky had saved her. That was what heroes did. Dad would be sad. Mom would be angry. But she had done the right thing.

And that was what mattered.

--​

Amy threw the basketball at her, and Vicky caught it expertly, working it into a spin on her finger. She rolled her shoulders, faking a yawn as she kept it spinning, then switched to dribbling it.

Amy rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “Yes, Vicky, you’re very good at what you do.”

“Yeah, well, can’t do anything with it, can I?” She dribbled the ball between her legs, doing a fake-fakeout of her sister, who was just standing there. “Under investigation of having super-”

She threw the ball. “-powers.”

Woosh. Two points.

“Well, you do.” Amy said, and Vicky’s face dropped from amused all the way down to did anyone hear you say that?

“Shh! And it’s not like it would help me in basketball anyway. Don’t you dare tell Mom and Dad. I want to finish my stuff, first.” She already had.

The programming for hard light constructs was finicky, unintuitive. Amy had known from the beginning. Well, not the beginning, because Vicky had tried to avoid hugs for a few days. Amy had noticed, and Vicky was forced to confess.

“Well, it’s a little flattering, isn’t it? In a weird way.” Amy picked up the basketball, tossing it back to her. “She’s so good, she has to be cheating.”

“Yeah, but it’s because of the family, too.” Vicky dribbled the basketball, then tossed it back.

“Fair enough.” Amy bounced the ball, up and down, up and down. “So what’s your first thing going to be? Gonna make armor? A shield?”

“Nah.” Glory. That was what they were calling her. Carefully dressed in a makeshift costume, and a wig.

Programmed with a pretty good fuzzy logic system. Not true AI, she couldn’t do that. There was also a link system, to allow for fine control. Even a reasonable imitation of speech.

She already had the best sister in the world, one that was selflessly giving her time to help so many people. She’d helped Dad. Mom had left.

The relief Vicky had felt, the guilt that she felt better after Mom left. It had all roiled up inside her, squirming and writhing.

That was when she’d woken up with powers, moments later.

Mom had come back. They went to therapy. Things got better. Slowly, but that was the nature of such things.

But something that Vicky was waiting for. She wasn’t telling Amy about Glory, for one, very important reason. She wanted to have that surprise, the moment where she’d show her the construct’s face. Her present to her hero, who’d done so much.

 

3.7​

I had worked under Dragon’s guidance for a few hours before she had called the session to a halt. My armor to-be was coming together. She guided me, but it was my responsibility to make it. Her philosophy of degrees of a hands-off approach was infuriating at times, and this was one of them. It was acceptable to give me the spider-silk suit, because that was an item many heroes received. Hell, Panacea had one. Wouldn’t want to lose one of the world’s best healers by means of a stray bullet.

I screwed up the greaves and boots three times before I finally got them into proper shape. I could begin the casting process again and again, but getting the proper crystallization of the armor was important, and the idea behind maintenance was to know how everything worked.

A superalloy was only as good as its weakest link. Monocrystalline structures were strong, but not as strong as a polycrystalline structure. They had differing advantages, but I wanted strong. I wanted bullets to hit this and decided they needed a long honeymoon away from me.

The joints were an interesting prospect. On one hand, I didn’t want my power to futz up and leave me immobile. That seemed like a dangerous aspect if something disabled my power. On the other hand I’d be immobile from about half a ton of weight, and my costume might not support me.

Wow, someone who could nullify powers would really screw me over. Best case scenario, my armor would “lock” into its most recent configuration, allowing me to move as normal. Worst case scenario there would be jam no longer where Taylor once was. All over the place.

A pleasant image. Well, I wouldn’t suffer long. Probably.

I finished the breastplate, letting it cool before its heat treatment. Dragon wanted to run a test, to see if heat treatments at the same degree to the separated metal would work in an identical fashion to a similar product, forged conventionally. Or, if it would require a lower heat- or something. She got very technical at times, and while I understood the annealing process when she explained it to me, the exact specifics escaped me at times. It wasn’t that I was stupid. It was more that Dragon made me feel like I was a child playing with legos as opposed to molten metal. Even if that molten metal would give me a first degree burn at its worst rather than making me a good imitation of a bonfire.

I was called in for a discussion with Dragon and Armsmaster around then. I could leave the metal there after I’d separated the meld and left the rest up to the drones.

--​

Dragon’s avatar paced around in front of me and Armsmaster. Armsmaster and I. Whatever. Wasn’t important.

“Mancatcher has deigned to return my calls. She sends her regards to you, Armsmaster.” Dragon waved her arm dismissively.

Armsmaster nodded in response. It wasn’t a happy nod.

“She prefers Catcher, for all its implications and the reference.” Dragon pursed her lips in distaste, “Part of her cognitive drift. A joke, in my opinion.”

Her image paced back and forth in front of the table, and a list scrolled by, too fast for me to read. I glanced at Armsmaster, whose eyes flicked across it.

“She’s going to hold off on attempts to acquire Templar, in exchange for the loss of some of my blind spots, or the removal of some of the restrictions we’ve set in Endbringer fights. Other propositions include a reduction in resources allocated to the PRT, and a relaxing on our mutual restriction to harvesting any braindead capes for resources.” Dragon shook her head.

“Hm.” The adroit response came from Armsmaster, who glanced over me and back to Dragon. “Anything else?”

“The issue is that Mancatcher claims she knows, but a certain amount of her statements about Templar’s power could be construed in several different ways. They could also be perceived as her not knowing and leading me astray to secure an advantage. She could also already know, and be using this as an opportunity to delve for more info and go after her.” Dragon’s avatar walked off the table into space, and I half expected it to fall down. It did not.

“Templar. Thoughts on the Wards?” Armsmaster said, not looking at me. His eyes were firmly on Dragon’s avatar.

“I’d rather not. Even if they didn’t know-”

“You feel uncomfortable.” Dragon completed my sentence. “Very well. I have a proposition for you. Go home. Get some rest. We have sufficient forces in place to stop an attack, Go speak with your father. I’ll print out a copy of possibilities and options. Honestly, we’re in a pretty good position.”

A pause.

Dragon spoke once more. “Mancatcher is scary, but it’s more in a Cold War sort of scary way. If something bad happens, it will be too late to worry about it. More mundane foes are ones you will most likely have to worry about.”

“Good work cheering her up, Dragon.” Armsmaster took my hand, helping me up. My legs may have been trembling a little. “How far is she on the armor?”

“Greaves, breastplate, boots.” Dragon checked the list off. “Helmet, vambrace, gloves, tasset, cuisse. Do you want pauldrons, Templar? I suppose that it doesn’t matter too much with your power, but the image can make a difference.”

I still wanted a scarf.

Or a cape.

The idealistic thought refused to die no matter how many times cynicism came at it with a knife, so I wanted to try it. Why not. “I’d like to use my scarf. Or a cape maybe I don’t know.”

It was even more embarrassing than I thought it would be to say it out loud, and then Armsmaster snorted. I was flushing, wanting to apologize for having stated it and making him feel like I was a stupid teen with the adults. “You could probably use a scarf or cape as a parachute or weapon. Not a bad idea.”

Oh. Yeah. That’s what I’d meant. Yeah!

“Why don’t- you? Wear one?” I tried to recover.

“Being unable to alter weight and size without making sacrifices in the build. Dangerous if someone catches it. Not useful or efficient enough for me. My image also doesn’t permit it very well. You could make a wingsuit and it would work better than most parachutes.” He snorted again. “Although you could end up killing yourself with the whiplash.”

The image of me killing myself in a maiden flight was actually fairly morbidly amusing. Dragon was glaring at him, but I was snickering. “Can you imagine? Here, miss, I’ll save you- splat.”

Dragon smiled, but I suspected it was out of politeness more than actual humor found in my statement.

A robot came in, handed me a booklet of information, and that was my cue to leave. I said my goodbyes, and headed out.

--​

Home is where the heart is, and mine was pounding out of my chest with worry. I was worried that Dad wouldn’t come home, that Sophia had gotten out somehow, and was chasing me down, that Mancatcher would decide this was the perfect time to somehow kidnap me, and many, many other things.

It wasn’t something I could really do anything about. They were all worries I couldn’t do anything about but allow them to stagnate in hopes that they’d go away. It felt silly to have them, but they were there, in the background.

So, I made food. I walked to the supermarket, hoodie on, sweatpants on, spidersilk melded into it. An exercise in multitasking.

I found myself a little scared as I walked back. Seems that ignorance really was bliss, at times. I missed school. I missed being unimportant and non-game-changing as a pawn for others.

I wanted to make something nice, something that would help me take my mind off things. I bought some cheese. We had flour, wasting away in the cupboard. Instant yeast, too. I picked up some olive oil and went home.

I made cheese bread. Pizza bread? Whatever. It was simple enough that I wasn’t afraid of screwing it up, and it took up enough of my thought processes that I couldn’t think about my worries for too long.

Dad came home while it was baking and just stood there for a moment in the doorway, smelling the air. I smiled. That was good, and five minutes later, the outer cheese was a light brown, the inside oozing and wonderful. We ate it with tomato sauce, and I started reading the document.

Weighing my options.

 

3.8​

Dad didn’t say I told you so, but it sure felt like he did.

It didn’t take long to get through the packet, and we outlined the options available to me. The details were a bit scary at times, but we had to be realistic. The statistics were there, independent heroes, blah blah blah, and I was worse off than most independent heroes in how reliant I was on materials. Except without the tinker stuff and more cool physics breaking stuff.

• Go independent: Take my armor from Dragon if possible and stay away from everything. Not a great option, considering that out on my own, I didn’t have much in the way of protection aside from my own armor. If word got out that I could help tinkers with their stuff, I might not survive very long.

• Go pseudo-independent: Work for Dragon, help pay bills. I get the protection, but Dragon has to deal with whatever overarching background stuff. I get access to good stuff, build a working relationship with Dragon. Seems like the best option, although I might have issues if I try patrolling alone or something.

• Full-Time Work: Pretty sure this is illegal, Taylor. Maybe there’s exception for capes, but you really should work on keeping your grades up before you do that. Dragon recommendations on my resume? No. Work on grades.

• Cape for Hire: No idea? It’d be kind of insulting to Dragon but she might give me a list of Tinkers that could utilize my assistance? Seems pretty dangerous. Maybe I could consult New Wave or

• Join the Wards: Seems like a decent proposition, but can I trust their oversight? They seemed pretty nice at the whole ‘sleepover guard you from psychopathic killer’, but they could be bullies or something. Well, it’d be pretty odd if they were, but it’s possible. You said I might be exaggerating because I don’t like them. You don’t like them either, if you think I am, I might be.

• Be a Super Villain: Okay this is stupid Dad why did you write this.

• Kiddo, I will write what I want

• Fine be that way I’ll just be a teacher instead and have people call me Miss H or something

“Wait, one of your teachers really does that?” Dad set down the pad, sliding it back across the table without anything else written down.

It went downhill from there, in a fun way. He was smiling, I was trying not to giggle. “Yeah, he does. Mister G, Mister Gladly was his dad and he tries to be all cool with the kids.”

“When I was a kid-”

“Back in your day?” I couldn’t resist giggling a bit.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, little infant Taylor, back in the days of yore. We tended to respect teachers that would tell the truth and take no sh- crap from us. If we screwed up, it was on our heads, and they weren’t there to be your friend, but mentors. That was the kind of teacher I most liked. Perhaps because I was the skinny one who could do well in that position.”

“Mm.” I picked the flute up from the table, rolling it over in my hands. “Emma was the reason I went to Winslow.”

Dad nodded. He had known, but I just wanted to say it.

“I guess, uh, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone? Maybe I should have tried for something else, or something better.” Arcadia. The prospect was left unsaid, and Dad respected that.

I appreciated the sentiment and sat there, turning the flute over in my hands, over and over. There was the mark of a fingerprint, there was the mark where I’d attempted to smooth out the wax it had been.

A far cry from what I was doing now, but still comforting.

Dad smiled at me. It was a surprisingly sad one. “Well, whatever you decide, I will support you. I don’t want to fight you on this and I think you’ve been very happy. We’ve interacted- more than we have in- months?”

I looked down, shamed once again by his open admission. “Yeah. I’ve missed it.”

“Yeah.” We sat there, the awkward silence growing and filling the room. I could hear every time I turned the flute over in my hands, my fingers against it. Some pieces were missing or delicate enough and bent that I hadn’t done them. It was my flute more than Mom’s now, but I still had the memories attached to it.

I placed it back on the table, and looked back up at Dad. “The whole thing about being in danger scared me. Honestly. I do want to help people, though. And not just behind the scenes. I feel like that might be safer, but- I want to get out there. And maybe I’m being selfish in that aspect. But hearing the stuff that’s going on, knowing that I can do something about it now-”

“You’d second-guess yourself the entire time.” Of course. Dad had fought for a long time, seen things falling apart, even though he’d worked both in the background and in the forefront.

I nodded my head in silent agreement. Of course he understood. Although he might not like it, he definitely understood.

“Perhaps you should join the Wards after all?” Dad spoke, his lips arching downward in displeasure.

I didn’t say anything in response. I wasn’t sure what to say. What could I do? It seemed wrong to go back to them. I wouldn’t mind working with them. A business relationship in pursuit of the lofty goal of justice. Checks payable to my conscience.

But teaming up with them, working, living with them, I wasn’t sure. Finally, I spoke. “I think Dragon is still a better idea. Even if I’m not a full time employee, if I’m a public figure, that would probably be better, right? I’d be nicely introduced and then we’d all be friends.”

We’d do what friends do. Skip alongside the road, taking down thugs, cleaning up the streets. Litter and drug dealers.

“So, that’s your game plan? Just kind of walk around the docks, hoping you come across Lung or Kaiser and beat them up until you can call the PRT to take them in?” Dad seemed unimpressed.

I was also unimpressed when he put it that way. “Well, no, I’d be maybe working with the wards, doing some joint patrols with them or something? Maybe I could work with Dreampulse or Shielder or something? The pamphlet said stuff about being able to submit some paperwork to liason with them or something?”

“I think you should get more information from Dragon before making a decision on this. It’s important. I want you out there on the buddy system, understood? Hold hands if you have to.” His tone was only half-joking. “I want you to be safe, and the best way for you to be safe is to be working with other people. Set up dates and times that you’ll be available. Treat this as an extracurricular activity that multitasks as work. Treat what you’re doing with Dragon as a part-time job. For all intents and purposes, it is.”

Dad leaned forward, wrapping me up in his arms. I hugged him back, saying “Okay,” into his shoulder.

“I’m serious, Taylor. I want you to plan this out. Before I’ll approve of anything, I want to see it in writing. I’ll look over it, no matter how long it takes for me to look it over. If we need to discuss it, I will set aside time for it. Any revisions, I will look over. Any concerns, I want to hear. We’re a family, I’m your father, so let’s work together.” We shook on it, and I went to bed, a lot more confident. I may have spent some time before sleeping working drawing up a schedule, but it wasn’t long before I was yawning too much to really concentrate on what I was doing.

--​

School ran from roughly eight to three. That meant two hours before Dragon’s part-time job. I could spend that time patrolling, maybe? Was there a lot of crime that went on right after school got out? It didn’t really seem like the greatest time to run around in costume looking for criminals. Maybe I should ask Dragon statistics on that. I was paying attention in class, I swear.

I even took notes, and I didn’t doodle, too busy working on the schedule. No texts from Dragon today. I was half-tempted to start up another conversation. Emma was attending school on a regular basis again. I did my best to ignore her. Her hair was a mess, all frizzy, although there had obviously been considerable effort put into maintaining it. She avoided looking at me, studiously inspecting the ground for trace deposits of guilt. Refraining from going near her, I just walked onward after class. I had my scarf, my silk bodysuit, and my shoes. If she tried anything, I certainly wouldn’t be the one sorry for it. It wasn’t like I was going to use lethal force, but I definitely wouldn’t let her have her way.

She didn’t run from me like Madison had, but she didn’t come anywhere close to me. I wondered if Sophia had contacted her that night. If Emma was her little guardian angel when she’d ended up on the ground, bleeding out. She had to know that Sophia was a killer, at the least. How had the Emma I thought I had known, changed so much?

Whatever. I wasn’t going to put a lot of thought into it. Nobody sat near me at lunch, but nobody harassed me at lunch. Win-win. My lunch stayed on my plate, it wasn’t spiked with laxatives, it just tasted bleh rather than the wonderful bouquet of grape soda. 2010 vintage.

Classes happened, school happened, I paid attention most of the time, and the rest I just kind of yawned and stared at the ceiling. Class finally ended, school finally got out, and I was free to subject myself to things I found more enjoyable than teachers who weren’t like they were in the old days of Dad’s rose-colored lenses.

I decided to make a quick checkup on Parian. She didn’t answer, so I went to go get some tea and cake, trying hard to crush the guilty relief I felt. I had things to do. Things were looking up. Both with me, and with Dad.