Mettle [Worm AU]

4.X​

Everything that she did, wasn’t her fault. It had been the result of other people, forcing her into it. She wasn’t responsible for what happened, because it was their fault. The test was ridiculous. Everything was ridiculous, and the teacher had hated her. She didn’t have a choice.

It was all a fucking joke on them, because she was better than any of those fuckers. What could they do? What did they think they could do, that she couldn’t?

She had power.

Except she didn’t, because once again, it wasn’t her choice, and it wasn’t her fault. So, she could do whatever the fuck she wanted, because it wasn’t her fault. Nothing was. It was liberating, to the point of extremes. She could do whatever she wanted. She could change whatever she wanted, she could experiment with whatever she wanted. And none of it was her fault.

So, at three in the morning, after twenty six hours of being awake, she wormed her tongue through her gums, checking for any last bits, for the one hundred and forty fifth time. She kept track, because it was very important.

She glanced at the ground, and then the operating table, checking again. Maybe she’d missed some, somewhere. Damn. Nothing. Maybe if she looked again. No, no, she had to focus back on the task at hand, or he’d expire like the last one did.

“Hhh—” Her throat was dry. She picked up the glass of tepid water, swishing it around in her mouth. Maybe there’d be a bit left over that she could get out. Nope. Nothing. “Hey! Goatfucker!”

Skidmark glared blearily at her from the broken-down chair he’d been sleeping on. Or coming down from the last high. “What.”

“I need more.”

“Not till you’re finished with that one.” Skidmark said. It was a petty and vindictive response. Once, she’d passed out, crashing and comatose for at least twenty hours. The 'patient' had expired; but it hadn’t been her fault. None of it was. She’d been nice, told him that she needed a bit more, just enough to stay moving, keep things all nice and easy. She’d warned him.

It was so nice to know that, as she slid the capsule into the unconscious man’s nasal cavity, pushing it allll the way up there. Woo. The hard part was already done, putting a larger one into his pacemaker. She even got to change it, modify it, add on to it. Bm boom, bm boom. That was the sound of the man’s heart beating. Mmm.

Everything was going to be A-okay. “Alright. Done.”

“Alright. This’ll really fuck up Lung? You sure, or you just being slanty-fuckwise with me?”

What did that even mean? “Yes. I’m fucking sure, you dumb cocksucking fuckwad. Give it to me.”

“Okay, okay. Fucking take it.” Skidmark rummaged in one of his many pouches, grabbing out a small ziploc. He tossed it to her, and she grabbed it out of the air. “Crazy cunt.”

His mutter made her glare at him, but she really didn’t care all that much. She pushed her bleached hair away from her face, scowling. The only reason why she didn’t shave the scraggly mess off was because she didn’t want to look like a demented faux-Nazi.

But even if she did, it wouldn’t be her fault.

She pulled off the medical gloves with a snap, throwing them to the ground.

It was her fucking tinker shop. Stupid fucking Skidmark. Fucking retarded fuck. Good shit, though.

--​

Sometimes, she admitted to herself, she took it to avoid sleeping. If she kept going long enough, the dreams weren’t all there, and she didn’t have to worry about things. Then she woke up, and it was things she couldn’t change anyway, so it was okay, and it was fucking finetastic. Because she was the best around at what she did, and Squealer could go suck a horse cock.

Bombshell. What a retarded name. Better than Squealer, though.

Jane Yukawa hated her face. She hated her body. She’d bleached her hair at the slightest provocation. It wasn’t her fault, nor her choice, so it was easy. Just another thing cut off from the past, just another step that she couldn’t control. Just like the melted flesh that made up the lower part of her left leg. Wasn’t something she had any power over, just had to go with it. No real choice.

She wasn’t a bombshell in figure or looks. She was average, at her best, and as she stared into the mirror with sunken eyes, she knew she was nowhere near her best.

Maybe she’d sleep it off instead. Get something to eat. She stared down at the packet in her hands. Whatever. Maybe tomorrow.

--​

When she finally woke up, the patient was gone, a bomb in their brain and their heart. A smaller one, a larger one. Bombshell felt nauseated.

She wasn’t stupid. Bombshell knew that she’d been taking quite a bit. More than she should. It was safe, her tolerance was high enough. But eating was important. There were burgers on the table next to her. Aww. He cared. Skidmark wasn’t here right now. Probably getting his rocks off with his Squealer bitch.

She didn’t care. Her libido had never been high. The drugs fucked with her more than anything else did, and the amphetamines had brought it down to an all-time low. But she’d never felt more satisfied or fulfilled when she sat at that table for thirty to forty hours, working, working, and knowing she was doing good. More than good. Fantastic. Nobody else could come close to what she was producing. Even Squealer appreciated her work, admired it. Bombshell’s lips quirked upward. Not quite a smile, more of a vindictive grin.

She was good at being vindictive. That’s what half the bombs were for.

Because Bombshell was the best at whatever fucking thing she wanted to be and NOBODY was going to say otherwise. Nobody.

She could have gotten that Valedictorian bullfuck shit but nope, wasn’t her choice, wasn’t meant to be. Oh well.

Not a thing. And now it wasn’t like she was doing too much worse than taking methylphenidate anyhow. Just like everybody else. It was how they got their edge. Well, now she had it, and all she wanted. Who was laughing now, huh? Fuckers.

She hated this stupid place. Bombshell hated everyone.

That’s why she asked Skidmark if she could hit the button.

“Not today,” he said.

She was up to three and a half grams a day. Sometimes more, because it kind of carried over into the next day. Woo.

It was nice to be working this much. All kinds of ideas, taking up the spots of the old ones, better ones, newer ones, brighter ones, darker ones. She had ideas of ideas, she saw the heroes on the TV she sat in front of and watched for a couple hours every morning, slowly spooning in long-soggy cereal.

Carbon-limited distortion. Ooh, look at Gallant on there, all dashing and fucking shit. Still in high school, bitch; world’s gonna smack you the fuck down. An emotional grenade, that had some kick to it, not anything like those wimpy power blasts. Suicidal urges, rage, maybe she could kickstart Lung, make him go off on civs until the protectorate had to kill him. Aegis flew overhead, all dramatic. What a dipshit fuckwad. Flesheater. She already had one for him. A special one, all wrapped up and ready to go. Not for him, particularly, but it’d work.

Change channel. Ooh, Legend. What a hottie. Yeah, strut it out on stage. A lightbomb. Some kind of targeting system, to specifically burn out eyes. Could she do it? Hell fucking yes she could. Wait, his lasers froze shit or something. How could she do that? Laser-targeted freeze bomb felt like cheating.

She’d figure it out. Bombshell staggered over to her workbench, moving so that she could sit, so that she wouldn't have to rely on her leg. It wasn't a problem when she started focusing, when she delved into her thoughts, thinking so fast that nothing could stop the pieces from coming together, not the fucking music next store she'd turn that into a bomb too and blow their fucking ears out. The squeaking of long-dead bedsprings, begging for release, she'd turn them into a glass sculpture so that everyone could see their stupid fucking faces, all lust-ridden and dead. It wasn't like she had a choice in the matter, they were just going to die anyway. It wasn't her fault.

--​

Bombshell asked Skidmark if she could press the button today.

“Not yet. By the end of the week,” he said, with a lot more profanity. Something about ‘selfish fuckin cunt’. She didn’t care. She wanted to see them go off, with all the fucking beauty she deserved.

--​

Skidmark followed through on his promise.

She pressed the button. It was all she'd hoped for. And it wasn't her fault, because she didn't have a choice. Someone would have done it, if it wasn't her. Bombshell was just giving them what they deserved.

 

4.Y​

Sarah Livsley hated waking up. It was hard enough to fall asleep as it was. The first moments, when she stopped dreaming, and her power kicked in, those were the worst.

Room unchanged, isolation, silk sheets, thousand threads per inch, waterbed, no additional stresses, personal weight distribution not ideal but not too important. Soundproofing still in effect, no real noise leakage—

She opened her eyes, sighing.

Moisture in breath below optimal levels, attributing to sore throat, slight dehydration, personal discomfort, itch on right arm related to rubbing too much against shirt, room isn’t temperature controlled at the moment. Walls are stark white, painted two months ago—

Showers were much the same.

Water distilled, leftover unfiltered taste suggests it originated from desalinated— shampoo was tested on animals, soap made from oil; oil comprised of coconut oil, avocado oil. Lye, essential oils. Lavender, peppermint. Grout starting to get mildew, bottom right corner of shower, second tile.

“Damn it,” she said, looking down at the shower tiles on the right of the shower, crouching down and rubbing at it for a moment.

Fixable, scrub brush, bleach, under counter. Hadn’t noticed because usually took showers without looking, to avoid more information, personal quirk—

Sarah stared down. She’d get someone to take care of it. Ha. And figure out every single thing they’d done here? Fuck. She finished rinsing herself down, wringing out her hair before stepping out of the shower.

The stupid scrub brush and the stupider bleach.

Dangerous to breathe, 5% dilution. Use with acid could cause formation of chlorine gas, good for disrupting, last used in Azerbaijan conflict of 2009, 413 dead, 926 injuries. Was on the news, because six capes died in the conflict.

Sarah scrubbed harder, trying not to inhale the bleach. She did not need status updates on each cough. Or how many minutes she was losing off her life while doing this stupid shit. Fuck.

She bet Accord didn’t have to deal with this stupid shit. No. She did not want information as to how Accord cleaned the fucking grout off his shower. She did not need that image. He probably kept the mask on, too. She focused harder on the grout.

Mildew, aided by Brockton Bay’s natural humidity, probably arrived when the water that came in was ‘merely’ filtered. Given time to grow, and her naturally incentivized behavior, it grew to the amount that it is at. A spot on the wall, and annoying to her sensibilities, because it had grown two millimeters in the last two weeks it had been visible.

Her completion of this task was immensely satisfying. She cleaned everything up, rinsing herself off once more. She dried herself down. Sarah breathed the scent of the towel in, enjoying it, as her mind picked it apart.

Towel thirty two days, sixteen hours, twenty two minutes, thirty seconds old. Washed eight times, smells faintly of fabric softener, citric acid, dimethicone, borax, ethanol, hexylidene cyclopentanone— still slightly warm from dryer cycle, on the inside— folded, kept heat in, happened roughly eighty minutes ago, placed and readied there by James, faint creases indicative of folding—

She finished, winding the towel into her hair, looking into the mirror.

Scar, above right eye, one centimeter, will fade in two months, if properly attended to. Blemish, above right cheekbone. Not melanoma. Eyelashes slightly out of place, Accord would notice, if she was meeting him.

“It’s a good thing I’m not,” Sarah muttered, widening her eyes, giving the mirror her best innocent look before walking into her room to get dressed for the day. If there was one thing she could appreciate, it was the mask. A kinetic sculpture, of sorts.

Polished silver, bronze, interlocked carefully. Moves along to approximate facial movements. Reflects different colors with certain deliberate movements of face, resembling insectile wings. Cicada, to be precise. A gift to the second in command. Shows how much he values her, to spend as much time as he did, to make it.

Acumen smiled. She was ready for her day. She slid the mask away into the velvet case, putting on the street clothes her job required. As Accord’s agent in Brockton Bay, she had certain things she needed to attend to.

--​

She knocked at the door. Three light, two hard, one light.

Alec wouldn’t be coming down. At this time, he was too busy making lunch. Brian wasn’t likely, he had to go pick up his sister, deal with some other things. His part-time job, to keep up appearances. Sabah was doing much better, but was probably still at her studio. That left Cherie.

Sarah felt a little surge of happiness, and grimaced. “Stop that.”

Neuropeptide, oxytocin, attempting to establish and reinforce trust, happiness upon seeing Cherie’s face. A new attempt at bonding, attempting to reach out, why? Alec not willing to play? No, not that, attempting to push boundaries? No, she knew the boundaries, and would not push them. Honest desire to be friends? Possible, but unlikely.

Cherie opened the door, pouting. “You’re not usually happy to see me. I wanted to change it a bit. Why so suspicious, boss?”

Still delighted with success. Wants to let off steam. Wants to celebrate, looking for someone to go out on the town with, out of costume— can’t convince Alec, Alec wants to stay in, Brian would most likely be occupied, Parian was most definitely a wash.

Sarah’s lips quirked upward into a smirk. “Right. Me, suspicious. I wonder why that could be, Cherie. Brian’ll be here in twenty minutes. Ply your trade on him, not me.”

Cherie rolled her eyes, affecting a dramatic sigh without much weight behind it. She flounced into the loft. “Sarah’s here! Says Brian will be here in twenty!”

“Good, you and your boyfriend can go snuggle together and leave me alone!” Called Alec from the kitchen. There was a certain sarcasm to that line that only Alec could lend to the statement.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Cherie said, “I think you’re just jealous.”

Her smirk was wider than Sarah’s, and she flopped down on the couch with a sigh.

Worried about Brian, to some extent. More out of a sense of losing something that she’d become accustomed to, the sort of person that detested that change more than anything. To that degree, Brian was ‘her friend.’ Just like the Undersiders were ‘her friends,’ to the degree that she could have that sort of relationship. Alec and Cherie were similar in that regard.

Emotional manipulation was more natural to Cherie, a product of her ability to see emotion, and what she’d gone through, early in life. It was like her good looks. Why shouldn’t she use it; it was just a natural part of her. Other people used words, she just touched lightly on emotions, pushing someone one way or another. Manipulating them, pushing them slowly.

They had good synergy, good information. She could read emotions, point out the targets, make crimes safer, for a better payoff for all involved. Social engineering was so much easier. If they hadn’t— No use crying over spilled milk.

Whatever. Sarah sat at one of the chairs near the couch. Cherie had her feet on the table.

Alec slid a plate in front of her. Sarah picked it up, and ate. He smiled winningly at her, then went back to not caring, walking back off to the kitchen.

Using Cherie to motivate himself, unhealthy, but a workable solution. Keeping it minor, for risk of further damage, has been for weeks, not new information.

Sarah hmmed. “Tastes good.”

Quiche. Ham, eggs, mushroom, onion, thyme, garlic, cream, gruyere. Alec was improving, or cribbing from recipes better. Both.

They waited there, Cherie drumming her feet on the table. Sarah removed her food, continuing to eat. The television played in the background, things that her power picked up and extrapolated on.

Conflict in Africa going poorly. Moord Nag taking more territory. Bauble, taking employment under Protectorate, two people missing today in Brockton Bay have been found today, their bodies returned to their families. Authorities—

Missing, since yesterday, related to— ABB? No. Wouldn’t be found again, either just mugged, killed, raped or thrown into what was affectionately called an opium den. Sarah glanced over at the television, looking at pictures. Sallow skin, stitches, stitches meant something had been done to them. Drug mules? No. Not the right area.

She rubbed her temples, trying to focus, trying to push her power— and then the fifteen seconds of fame for those people were over. Shit.

Information suppression? No, just not wanting to reflect on what had been done to them. They’d go through tests, checking for what had been implanted.

How long did she have?

Ten minutes. Cherish was looking at her with some interest. She sees the alarm, the slight hints of panic, a flowing beat suddenly becoming an array of arpeggios.

Sarah called Coil. “It’s important. I’m sorry.”

There was silence on the other line. She knew he was listening, so she forged ahead.

“Stitched up corpses found, not ABB, definitely not E88, leaves only Merchants. Not Merchant MO, but evidence of drugs introduced into their system that fit what merchants do. They were missing for three days, what was the cause of death?” Sarah said, finishing her little speech, speaking calmly, enunciating her words.

“Coroners haven’t done it yet.” Coil responded, his clipped tones revealing irritation, but not anger. He doesn’t know, doesn’t have the full picture yet, given him some clues, but he still doesn’t have enough to work through things. It’s not good enough—

“Anything. Give me something. I can help. Please.” Swelling up inside her, there was something missing, a piece that would let things fall into place for her, not only for her power, but for her, and let her piece everything together, and she needed to know that piece because it would solve everything and make everything and—

There was silence from the other line.

“Fuck, Coil, come on. This is serious. You can see this. You’ve got the fucking big picture shit come on please—”

“Merchants might have a new parahuman. They’ve kept it as secret as they can, but we think she’s a tinker.” She could hear him grinding his teeth. He hated the very concept of the Merchants having another tinker. The gall, the very thought of them, having a resource he couldn’t access, use, it ate at him, and he didn’t want to admit it, least of all to another thinker.

Cherie leaned forward, bobbing her head slightly. The beat and arpeggios had become a mix of minor and major chord progressions, dissonant and clashing, in all the right ways.

Sarah waved her away, but Cherie just smirked wider.

“Tinker. Okay. Uhhh— Couple weeks back, maybe more. Lung gets hit by something—” There was something she couldn’t think of.

Cherie got up, heading to the door. She opened it before Brian could knock, giving him a hug. She led him in, holding his hand, and sat onto the couch, pulling him down to lie in her lap.

“Something dissolved flesh. He was out of commission for at least a week, maybe more.” Coil said, his voice prodding her forward. “They assumed it was a new cape. Maybe Ossia, but it didn’t fit with her powers, even with what she did to Shadow Stalker.”

“No, no, not her—” Possibilities cycled through, things that could be, things that couldn’t. Cape, versatile, ability was damage-based somehow. An ability like Lab rat, except timed? No, not enough to risk this. More people would have been detected, sooner. What was the goal? Asians. The people discovered were both Asians. That’s why she thought of the ABB first, drew the conclusion before reconsidering it.

What was going on? From a melted leg, stitches, biotinker? Could work, a possibility, messy work a symptom of working with Merchants. “Casualties?”

“No witnesses, or at least none we found, none willing to talk. “

“Damage to surroundings.” Sarah said. Cherie gently stroked her fingers through Brian’s cornrows, scratching lightly ever so often. Alec came in, put a plate down in front of Brian, smiled winningly, and went back to not caring.

“Quite a bit. Area of effect, assumed it was Lung, pyrokinesis. Burned edges, not much else in the report on that. You think it’s— they kept it secret because hm. Take care of yourself.” Coil hung up.

Sarah didn’t care. Cherie had stopped stroking Brian’s hair, staring at her.

Shit. Shit. An area of effect based tinker, potentially. Something that they’d been waiting to make an alpha strike from, to push their advantage as much as possible.

Something they could abuse and use. Ambassador safehouses? One, she’d set it up in a hurry.

Sarah called Sabah. “Loft. Now.”

“But—” She thinks she’s making progress. Her work is going better than it usually does, and it’s not nearly as bad today. But she knows she’ll feel much better, here. Best to wait. “—I’ll be there.”

Sarah smiled, even though she was worried, she could still get that little bit of self-satisfaction. “It’s important. And tell people you care about to get to safety, if they’re in Brockton Bay.”

They weren’t. She knew that already, though. Sabah’s relatives had moved out of Brockton Bay, leaving her mostly alone, isolated. It helped though, to extend that bit of meaningless kindness. The mindfulness she’d been trying to teach Alec and Cherie. It was working, to some extent. As much as one could expect. Maybe a little more.

Cherie patted Brian on the head, causing him to open his eyes, smiling up at her. She smiled back down, then nodded her head toward Sarah.

“We’ve got a problem.” Sarah said, Brian listened.

It would take Parian an hour and a half to make it to the loft. Was it safer to stay at home? No. Definitely not. If what she was thinking was happening, it would be bad. Very bad. Was there anything they could do, right now? No. Maybe. Maybe not.

It was an hour in when the world turned into light and was suddenly extinguished.

The world turned back to normal slowly, tendrils of darkness streaming off of Brian as he glanced around the room, raising from where he had been covering Cherie. “Everyone alright? Alec? Sarah?”

Bomb. Bomb tinker. She made explosives. She was setting the explosives off. Randomized? Placed in areas, given to people to hold, who wouldn’t know or question what they were. Discounts for drugs if they carried them? Probably. Some implanted into others, why? The dead asians. Lung, she wanted to get to Lung. Grudge? Grudge. “M’fine.”

“Peachy.” Alec returned, a knife held in one hand. “What was it?”

“Bomb tinker. Bomb fucking tinker.” Sarah started pulling her costume on, vaguely surprised to see Cherie was already in the process of doing so.

“What?” Cherie said, smirking. “We gotta go get Parian. Right, boss?”

Sarah mimicked her expression.

 

4.4​

Math class was interrupted by the classroom lightly shaking.

I heard and felt the rumble; people around me cringed, and Mr. Quinlan stopped talking about polynomials. Then, there was a sequence of noises, some of them sounded like static, others sounded— like grenades? Shit.

“Everybody down!” I yelled, dropping out of my seat. My voice wasn’t great for authority, and some people followed my lead, while others just stared at me. “Get down! Parahuman attack!”

Some more people got on the ground, Mr. Quinlan looked like he wasn’t sure if this was a prank or not. For a long moment, I doubted it as well; my darker thoughts were that I didn’t exactly have much reputation to lose if I was wrong. Mark it up to another notch on the loser list.

The windows hummed for a moment, oh god I was— then roiled. My arms were on their way to cover my face as I rolled away, but I wasn’t quite fast enough— scarf, shit— I screamed.

I saw the glass crack, spiderwebs across the surface before it exploded inward. I closed my eyes, but I still heard the sound of it, a dissonant frequency that set my teeth on edge. It felt like my entire skull was rattling, with the worst of it.

Then, it was over. I slowly removed my arms from my face, peeking through. What I saw made me want to just close my eyes back up and pretend that nothing had happened. What the fuck.

Fuck. My stomach heaved, and I forced myself to look around, trying to push myself off the ground— Something was wrong, and I couldn’t get up right. Was there glass inside me? Was my spine fucked up? I glanced down at myself, patting myself for injuries. Hoodie had some holes in it. My hands came away wet, but that was because of the glass in my hands, blood trickling onto my clothes. The silk undersuit had no holes. I was okay. I rolled to the side, trying to use the chair as a support. I managed to get to my knees, and fumbled at my bag. Had to get to my bag.

I wasn’t even sure why I was doing it as I patted away at it, opening it up, reaching into it. Was it my book that I wanted? No, no, I needed something from inside it. Not my books. All I could hear was the horrible droning, something pounding in my ears.

What was it that I needed? I was wasting time, not knowing and I just kept taking things out, dropping them to the side. Lunch, no, that wasn’t it. My scarf. I needed this. Why, to conceal my face? I giggled a little, pulling it out, draping it over my shoulder. What else? There was something else. My phone.

I pulled it out, staring at the cracked screen. Dad bought me it. It was broken. Shit.
Uh, what was I doing, again? Why did I need my phone, and my scarf? I tried to pull myself to my feet again, clutching the phone in my hands. There were people all around, in various states of injury. Where was Emma? Was she okay? It took me a moment to catch my thinking.

I tried to focus. To help. When I moved, the world lurched, and I almost fell into more glass. I tried again, pushing past the nausea, trying to figure out what to do, what I could do.

“Hello?” I said, my voice echoey and dull. I could feel the vibrations of my voice as I spoke, but couldn’t hear it very well I tried focusing on hearing, as I looked around the room again. Slowly, still unsure what I could do. Focus. I knew how to make a tourniquet. I knew basic first aid. Why wasn’t I doing that? I’d seen Aegis all screwed up, I needed to move, these people around me weren’t Aegis.

A girl, I think her name was Renée? Was that it? Her arm was all bloody. Mr. Quinlan was on the floor, bleeding. His chest rose and fell with quick, jerky breaths. I didn’t move. I wasn’t safe, out in the open, I didn’t have my armor around me, and there were people, all around. All injured, in some way, or worse.

Move. I had to do something, anything. Fuck— I stumbled over to the girl, her mouth was opening and closing, but nothing was coming out. I shifted the paper in my hoodie to the forefront, tearing it into strips, unmerging them. Did she need a tourniquet? There was a lot of blood. Was it all her? She could lose her arm, if I didn’t do it right, or worse. Windlass. I needed a windlass. Pencils. There was a purple-pink bag on the ground, with stars and bangles on it. I opened it. Pens, pencils. I grabbed a handful, using a pair of pencils. She tried to weakly push me away. Her mouth opened and closed.

I said something, she didn’t react.

I felt stupid, for not realizing. I couldn’t hear. Not properly, anyway. I fumbled at her arm, trying to get the bandage and windlass into place. My hands weren’t moving as well as I was used to, they twinged in pain every so often as I tried to make fine movements. I tightened it, above the elbow. Her lower arm was in shreds, I could see bone and muscle. Tourniquets were good for shock. They stopped them from going into shock, if you got them on fast enough. Have to mark the time. Time. I found a marker in the bag, pulling it out, looking at the clock. One thirty. I marked it on her head, “Don’t wipe it off.”

I got up, moving, trying to get to the next person. Why was I so damn slow? I was supposed to be triaging, checking people for injury, ranking them, giving assistance— some people had gotten out of the room. Some people were on the ground, clutching at arms, legs, stomachs, faces. One or another, or multiple. The room smelled of shit and iron.

What was I supposed to do?

I stumbled from person to person, checking the extent of their injuries, trying to do what I could. How many of these people would die? How much of it would be my fault? What could I do?

I had to keep acting, keep doing things. The pain in my ears and hands became more pronounced as I worked, trying to keep people stable. Some people, I just couldn’t do anything about. One person had glass all over one side of his body, because he hadn’t gotten out of his chair, and had been close to the window. Dead.

Was Dad okay? What was I doing here? I had to get home, Dad— I’m sorry, I’m so sorry— I wanted to sit there, curling up and not thinking of what was going on. But I couldn’t do that. I needed to go, to help. I used the wall to prop myself up, and started heading toward the doorway, checking for phones along the way. On the floor. Broken. Bag open, phone broken. Broken. All of them were broken.

I had to get to the Rig, or to Dragon’s bunker. My armor was at the bunker right now. There was a stripped-down version at the Rig. What could I do? I didn’t even know who did this. Shatterbird was dead, did someone have those exact powers?

There was no enemy to fight, no way for me to get anything done. People ran, crawled, or huddled against walls. I still couldn’t hear anything but my chest breathing out. All I could do right now is help, or join them. I chose to help.

I continued my efforts. The pain got worse, but I continued. There were other people who were helping. Mr. Gladly was pale, had a bandage around his upper arm, but he was helping. I didn’t see Emma, on the floor, or running. Had she not come to school? More people were helping. Someone brought me a bottle of water. I drank it, spilling some on myself. I couldn’t keep my hands from trembling. Time passed, a Dragon mech came to pick me up. I went with it.

Dad was okay. The house hadn’t been hit. I explained what I’d done, listing the people I’d tourniqueted, the first aid I had applied, making judgments that made me feel like I was personally responsible for each person's status. Whether they were alive or dead, it was my fault.

Panacea was working overtime. Othala had come out of ‘retirement’, helping and healing. A move by Kaiser to gain popularity, no doubt. Rune and Night had mysteriously been freed by the explosions. Whatever. I felt too shitty to care. Othala glanced at me, touched me, and a minute later, I was good to go. Panacea was being used for people who really had problems.

I still felt like curling up into a ball and dying. What could I have done?

Were there more people that I could have helped? Did I kill anyone with my actions?

Dragon sent me home. Dad hugged me, offered food; I wasn't hungry. I fell into bed, and dreamed of what had happened.

 

4.5​

In my dreams, I was in the classroom again, watching as the windows shattered, throwing the shards into the room. I watched the rest of the class, I saw that girl’s hand in exacting detail, because I was looking down at it. Flensed, I could see the bone beneath, the muscles twitching as I used it to prop myself up. It didn’t bleed, because the blood was all over the glass, and I picked that out of the wound that was my hand. My fingernails were glass, so I had to remove them too.

I was very thankful that I woke up at that point, clammy, cold, feeling as if everything around me wasn’t quite real. I’d rolled out of bed, the sheets all around me in a tangle.

3:16 AM, the clock next to the bed pulsed, I stared at my hands, unblemished, looking at my fingernails, worrying at them for a moment. They were there. That was really good. I shucked my sweaty clothes, staying for a while in the shower, I played with my scarf while inside, running through the paces. Wrapping it around my arm, making it heavier, making it lighter. I molded it into a bowl, turned it into metal except the weight, letting water pool up inside it, pouring it over my head. I needed something to focus on, and this was it. The lines and patterns that made up the blocks of metal inside sufficed as a distraction. I could stare at them, manipulate them. I wanted them to go this way, making the silk stiff, I wanted them to go that way, giving it the flexibility. I twisted the lines, making it intertwine, making it light to me, but not to others. I unbraided them, and then stared at it.

The water turned from hot, to warm, to cold. I finally got out after that. I got a towel and worked at drying off. I pulled on clothes, feeling naked even with them on. I wanted my armor. Dragon had sent me home without it.

Downstairs was the place to be, and I sat, watching coffee drip. I took the cup, smelling, basking in it. It washed other smells from my mind, and I could sit at the table with it in my hands.

Blood, glass, and the smell of shit and iron.

Those were the things I didn’t need to think about, sipping at the coffee. I finished half the cup, pouring the rest down the drain. I had assumed, I had thought that there was some sort of separation. That my life wasn’t— That I could be Taylor. That this wouldn’t happen, while I was Taylor. That I could push things that happened in one piece, leave them there, and not have to deal with them as Ossia. Keep each of my lives, one normal, one proud and heroic, each in their boxes.

That this wouldn’t happen, while I was Taylor. It hadn’t even been targeted at me. It was just some psychopath tinker.

God. There was all this nervous energy. Perhaps a placebo from the caffeine, perhaps my own dream, spurring me to act, to do something. If I was up, why not help, why not be useful? Every moment I spent here, doing nothing was another moment someone could be dying in the wreckage.

I went upstairs, pulled on my jacket and jeans, grabbing my scarf. I put my hand on the doorknob, and tried to open it. It was locked. That made sense. After a thing like that, I didn’t blame Dad for doing it. I started heading around to the back door, or maybe a window—

“Sit down, Taylor.” Dad said, and I flinched.

“D-Dad! Hi.” Fuck.

He stepped down from the staircase, thin and wan, finding a seat on one of the chairs in the living room. “Sit.”

I sat, in the seat that was vaguely across from him, not directly in front. I didn’t want to meet his eye.

“Do think so little of me, Taylor?” He said; the pain and disappointment soaked through every word. “Do you know how I felt when I heard that Winslow had been attacked?”

I stared at the table, because looking up would have necessitated seeing his face, and I didn’t want to see that. I didn’t think I could take it. “I— I just wanted to help.”

“Yes, and that’s great, but am I allowed to have my daughter, too? You could have died, you get home, you fall asleep without eating, and you wake up and want to head out at five in the morning?” In the quiet that followed, I could hear him run his hands through his hair, the sigh that made me feel as if I’d done something terrible. “And all to go help out with this?”

“People could be dyi—”

“And that’s terrible! People dying is a terrible, terrible thing. And what if you go out there, use your power to try and help, and because you’re tired, you screw up? Do you think you’ll feel any better? If a doctor has to sleep, should they not do that because they might be able to save one more person? I’m nipping this one in the bud.” There was another intake of breath, another exhalation. “I’m sorry, Taylor.”

“I just— I see what happened in my dream, and I can’t stop thinking about what happened, how it happened. If I had done just a little more, or been less afraid of revealing myself...” I trailed off. My voice got smaller and smaller. “I want to help.”

“I understand that. But you’re my daughter, too. I’m your father, or at least I hope we’re still on those terms.” There was some forced cheer, now. “I love you, Taylor. I’ll call Dragon in the morning, alright? She’ll let you know if and where you’re needed. Leave it to the professionals, for now. Uh, later, in the morning, at least.”

“Okay.” What was I going to say? I could sneak out the window, but— god, everything felt like a selfish thing to do. I was helping, for my own self-satisfaction, but not helping was selfish, too.

I went back to bed, laying there for a few hours before sleep took me. Each time I woke up, panting because the windows in the house had exploded, killing Dad, forcing me to watch him bleed out because my eyelids were glass— I tried to roll over and get back to sleep. Eventually, I managed it.

Stumbling downstairs at eleven wasn’t an impressive feat, but it felt like that nervous energy was mostly gone, and I didn’t feel as compelled to act, to move and help. Dad made a sandwich, handing it to me on a plate. Iced tea came second.

“Thanks,” I ate. I didn’t feel hungry, but my stomach disagreed, and I worked my way through the sandwich in little time, not paying much attention to what was in it.

“Dragon texted. She’ll pick you up in an hour, just put on a mask or some concealing wear, and head out down to Hughes street. Another sandwich?” He asked, I nodded, chewing, then gulped the last bite down.

“I’m sorry. You were right,” I said, and he stopped moving, putting the mustard-covered butter knife back down. “I thought of it as kind of an escape, and— it feels like the line between myself and being a hero is blurred. Like, if they’re willing to attack, I shouldn’t be here, I should be out there. I— I’m scared, if something happens to you, if you—”

“Taylor. You’re a kid. You’re a teen, and you’re dealing with so many serious, terrible things already. Don’t be so scared for me, too. It’s my responsibility to take care of you. I want you to be healthy, and happy. To get good grades, get a boyfriend or a girlfriend that I pretend to despise, the whole nine yards. This hero stuff is all sorts of crazy, to me. But, it’s a part of you. You want it in your life, that’s fine. Just— don’t let it be all you are. Okay?” There was the sort of tone in Dad’s voice that came when he was talking about Mom, that way he had spoke at the funeral. “You saw some stuff yesterday that no teenager should have to see. No adult should have to see those things. It’s all sorts of screwed up that you’re just going right back out there for it now—”

He sighed, raising his hands in a sign of defeat and turmoil.

“Okay. I’ll do my best. I’ll have the PRT and Wards and Dragon nearby, so it’s like it’s the safest place anyway, right?” I spoke it in a slightly joking tone, but Dad’s face was ever more serious.

“Be careful, Taylor. The ABB is going crazy. Lung is missing, and it’s tearing itself to bits as a result.” He looked down, then back up, then wrapped me up in a hug. “I love you. Stay safe.”

“Mmhm,” I said, muffled by the sweater; then went to get ready.

 

4.6​

“Ossia, over here,” Acumen said, tossing her head in the direction of a specific bit of rubble. “You can make that piece of rubble light, move it, and the rest won’t collapse.”

Her eyes glimpsed at things, blinking, opening, looking everywhere. They peered through the rubble. I didn’t look at the pieces that floated to the surface, because I had to focus on the task at hand. I remembered her shadow, but I wasn't going to let that change what was going on here.

“There’s another two in there,” Cherish pointed out each, position, judging that two fingers on her hand were necessary for the task as she continued to listen to music. It was irritating, but she was exceedingly skilled at pointing out areas where people were. There weren’t many in the streets, but there were collapsed, there were some bombs in houses, that made collapses or effects that imprisoned people.

The Shatterbird imitation had been one of, but not really a large amount of the bombs. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing, because while glass shattering did a lot of damage, and had a good number of casualties—at least they didn’t trap people into a slow-time field which they couldn’t exit. At least it didn’t loop them, but the people were stuck there, moving so slowly they hadn’t been sure if the victims were aware. Blinking took them roughly eight hours.

Or the pain bombs, which ended up having all the people hit by it dead, or in a semi-conscious state. The ones that went into seizures and bashed their brains out with the spasms—

“Ossia. Come on.” Acumen said, and I jerked to attention.

“Yeah. Sorry.” I opened up my hand, shaping the titanium-clay-meld to a gross approximation of the rubble. Pushing it into the fucked up surface made up of rebar and concrete—One, two, concentrate—and I was done. Took me a minute or two, but it slowly sank into it, and the lines and patterns gleamed. They twisted and turned, and then I slowly lifted the rubble off, placing it to the side, then separating the melded objects. The rubble creaked threateningly at me, and I looked back to what used to be a doorway to a house.

Some bombs had been normal. Straight destruction, except worse, because they were somehow targeted, shredding through specific keystone supports. This wasn’t a matter of someone placing shaped charges, either, but an explosive with some sort of fuzzy logic.

“Hey. Ossia. Focus.” Acumen snapped her fingers in front of my face. “You’re obsessing. Not doing you, or anyone else any good. You’re here, you’re helping. Focus.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I understand. We’re all tired, we’re all kinds of screwed up. You can help, and if you need to, you can take a break. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Acumen stared at me, her domino mask showcasing her concerned expression.

“Right. Okay.” The words struck a nerve, and I straightened. “Where’s the next spot?”

Acumen pointed, and I began shaping the clay.

It went on much like this. My bad moods didn’t last overlong, and I was generally in good cheer. We found people, who tended to not be overly frightened, although they were a bit delirious. Either from dehydration or from some degree of injury.

The process was slow going, I wasn’t like Rune, who could just touch the objects and lift them. I’d seen her helping out from above, and if she’d seen me, I’m sure she would have given me a nasty glare. I took one to two minutes for each piece of rubble, and had to lift, and replace it, then unmerge and repeat the process.

But, I could do things like making sure stuff didn’t fall apart, or make impromptu protection with the scarf. At one point, I made a tunnel with it, to make sure that it wouldn’t collapse after Acumen commented on it.

At the end of the day, I was cheerful. Not giddy, but just a sort of established satisfaction in a job well done. We’d really managed to help people, and I had played a part. We had pulled some bodies out from the wreckage, but every person we found was someone who could stop looking, Acumen reminded me.

It was hard to believe that they were villains.

The next day, I worked with a different group. Wards, Gallant and Clockblocker. Gallant was the ‘spotter’, to the best of his ability. Clockblocker was there for stopping things from collapsing in, and I was there, as usual, to be the mover of heavy objects.

There weren’t as many living people as yesterday, and the ones we found were in bad shape. Clockblocker froze them until we could get them medical attention.

The ‘real’ Protectorate were chasing down the people who’d done this.

I was pulled off of the search and rescue efforts the next day. Not good for my mental state, evidently. Most of the Wards were as well. So, I sat on my hands and patrolled, while the adults did real hero stuff.

It was frustrating.

I could help. But it was better for me to just patrol, help out who I could. The gangs were actually serving as somewhat of a control for the potential crime in their communities, with the exception of the ABB.

With Lung gone, things destabilized. They were lashing out, attacking others. Looting was rampant, and there were ‘aftershock’ explosions. Bombs that had been set, hidden, to go off in a second wave. Some of them were duds, after other explosions had hit them in the cascade, or had misfired.

Some of them weren’t. Sometimes, looters would find one. That’s why I was patrolling with Gallant. He had the blaster bits, and could subdue people from a decent range, and was significantly less lethal than my ranged attacks. I was beginning to wonder if there was something I could use with darts, but it probably wouldn’t interact well with my power if I used tinkertech for it.

Perhaps I needed something else, but I just—

”Hey!” I pointed at the person about to throw a brick through a window. They looked our way, dropped the brick, and booked it. I sighed. “Should we chase them?”

“No,” Gallant said. “Not worth it. Just keep moving. If we just show our faces around here, it’ll at least stop some crime from going on. That’ll have to be good enough.”

“Yeah.” I said, grimacing.

We continued onward, checking in on homes, houses, and shops. Many of them were shuttered, if they weren’t blown open, or had rubble strewn about the area. The place hadn’t been hit as hard, but where it had been hit, it was really bad.

In a sick way, I was kind of thankful for that, because it meant that rescue workers wouldn’t get attacked. The ABB wanted those supplies first.

Most houses shut their doors, or windows, or continued to board things up. We weren’t sure if the community was insular, scared, or both. We decided it was probably the latter. The places that we passed by that weren’t hit were terrible. Cars trashed, radios ripped out, hell, some of the wiring for the street lamps had been ‘salvaged’ as well. None of them were working.

We stopped a mugging from taking place, and that was the highlight of the day. A reporter had decided they wanted a ‘scoop’, and some thugs decided they wanted a private interview, with the payment of all of the reporter’s possessions. Gallant blasted one of them with a dark blue ball of light, causing him to start crying. I moved forward, sword in hand, and the other two ran. I wasn’t sure whether to cuff the crying thug, or pat him on the back. He tried to run, but I tripped him, then erred on the side of caution and cuffed him. The reporter tried to interview me, asking me what I thought about all the going-ons, clearly thinking that things had just fallen into their lap.

It irked me. I wanted to tear him apart for it, for the sheer inconsiderate pomp that he had. How dare he? He was trying to dig up dirt, find stuff, putting himself into harm just for his story?

People had died, while he stood there, tossing questions, and—Gallant took over, diplomatic and kind. He talked about his worries, and my frustration slowly faded.

I pulled the thug to his feet. If we foamed him, we’d have to wait at least thirty minutes for transport. As it was, he’d probably be let go from the prison within a few days, or transported out of state. I heard something about things being over capacity, the cells being prioritized for villains who were taking advantage of the tentative ‘truce’ while the city reached an equilibrium. After that, serious crimes, then violent crimes, and you could be an addict and get let right out again, because things were just spread too thin.

It all just irritated me. Gallant talked about how I’d been helping with relief efforts with him, and had been a great help, and I ducked my head, nodding and saying something about how Gallant had been a great help. I meant it, but it felt like it was falling flat when I said it.

I looked away, trying not to look at his shadow. I’d seen enough of it today, a blotchy pastiche of colors that was impressionistic, reaching out of the frame, gathering colors, and drawing them back in. It was pretty, almost, in that odd way. The perfect shadow, for the perfect guy.

We escorted the reporter and the thug to safer territory, and that was the end of the patrol. Nothing too dangerous for us, but we were both in armor, and it just—hadn’t been satisfying or felt like we’d done much.

I reported to Dragon, she updated me as to the progress of the hunt. The Merchants had disavowed Bombshell, claiming her actions were independent, in an action that was simultaneously too late, a great idea in concept, and an absolutely terrible idea in concept.

Bombshell was independent, now, and most of the Merchants were independent from their limbs. Flash-freeze bombs, shatterbird bombs, pain bombs, she set them all off and escaped in the ensuing carnage.

Now she was at large, and had even less to lose.