Path to Munchies (Worm AU)

Taylor Hebert – Saturday night/Sunday morning – January 8-9

I’ve been home from the hospital for a few days now, just going through the motions. The pain isn’t too bad, really, but that might be the Vicodin talking. It leaves me feeling a bit floaty and disconnected. At the same time, I’ve not been sleeping well. Waking up, obsessing over random things, my mind racing too much to get back to sleep.

I wake just before midnight Saturday with an intense craving for chocolate chip cookies. They have to be warm and fresh and gooey, with a glass of milk to wash them down. Not so odd, right? Midnight snacks are a thing.

That’s when I start feeling a little more disconnected than usual, as if I can just let everything go and I’ll have my cookies. As I start the mental checklist of “How to acquire warm and fresh and gooey chocolate chip cookies (and a glass of milk)," my initial reaction is that the meds must be bringing out my OCD tendencies again. Also, I’m way loopier than usual because instead of "Preheat oven to 350°," I’m planning steps like "Exit house; walk three blocks east."

Fifteen minutes later and I’m knocking on some random person's door. Even stranger, I feel compelled to… No, that’s not quite right; it’s not a compulsion, it’s simply how things have to be. Like performing on stage, I have to take certain actions and deliver my lines at just the right time in order to facilitate the acquisition of cookies. I don’t even need to pay attention to the details, all I have to do is stay out of my own way and the cookies will be mine.

I know that I need to wait eleven seconds after knocking, and then I’ll say “Mrs. Abbotson? Is everything alright? It’s Taylor Hebert, Annette’s daughter?” Wait, no, I actually said that, can feel my face forming an expression of vague concern.

The door starts opening then, revealing this tiny old woman. She can’t be five feet tall, white hair tied back, and an apron, liberally sprinkled with flour, protecting her clothes. “Little Taylor? Oh, not so little any more are you? Look at you, just the absolute picture of your mother. I haven’t seen you since, well, it’s been years! What are you doing wandering around this time of night? Don’t you know it’s not safe for a pretty thing like you?”

I… know this woman? Well, no, obviously I must know her, otherwise I wouldn’t be knocking on her door and calling her by name. Maybe the meds are making me sort-of remember things? I should apologize and head back home, I don’t want to just tell her “Ah, I’ve just been a bit restless since getting out of the hospital. I thought some fresh air might help, but when I saw all your lights on, I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” Wait, what?

“The hospital? Oh, you get in here out of that cold, dearie.” Matching word to action, she grabs my arm and urges me into her home. “Pardon the mess, I’ve been baking all evening. St. Matthew’s is doing a bake sale to raise money for the homeless and, well, I had it in my head that it was the second Sunday after New Year’s. I was talking to Barbara earlier, though, and she told me ‘Lizzie, you old bat, it’s the second Sunday of the month! Tomorrow!’” She pauses for a moment, then, looking a bit sad, she adds, “I promised them I’d help.”

I’ll just leave her to finish her baking, I wouldn’t want to distract her any more than I have already. “Oh no! Well, I’m awake and here – let me give you a hand with that,” I exclaim as I throw her a wide, charming smile.

That’s not me leaving. Wait, I have a charming smile?

She looks… cautiously hopeful? “Are you sure? It’s awfully late already…”

“I’m positive.” Giving her a smaller, more wistful smile, I add, “I admit, I haven’t done much baking in the past few years, I may be a bit rusty…” That’s probably the least wrong thing I’ve said yet. I haven’t done much baking ever, but it can’t really be all that hard, can it? And when did my smiles start getting so expressive?

Emotions flicker across her face – sympathy, sadness, fondness. “Oh, sweetheart.” She gathers her thoughts for a moment. “Well, let’s get you a couple of cookies and a glass of milk, and we can get organized. I’d just pulled a batch of chocolate chip out of the oven when you knocked, they should be just cool enough to eat now.”

As I nibble on the cookies and Mrs. Abbotson (“Call me Lizzie, dear”) sorts through her ingredients, I’m filled with determination. I may barely have any idea who she is, but she’s welcomed me into her home in the middle of the night and has treated me with more kindness than anyone else has in months. I’m going to help her turn those ingredients into the best damned baked goods her church has ever seen.

Mrs. Abbotson quite sensibly insists that I start off slowly. All sorts of baking plans are running through my mind, but I decide to focus for now. Since I had just partially depleted her supply of chocolate chip cookies, I decide that my “audition” will be replenishing those. She has both walnuts and macadamia nuts at hand, so I make a triple batch of the base dough and split it into thirds – two for the different nuts, one plain. While I focus on getting the cookies ready to bake, Mrs. Abbotson cleans the bowls and utensils I’ve been using.

Forty five minutes after starting and the first batches are on the rack, cooling. I put one of each on a plate and hand them over for testing.

“Back with me, then, dear?”

I blink in confusion, then blush as I realize I haven’t said anything in almost an hour. “Ah, sorry about that. I guess I got too focused on the baking.”

She laughs softly. “Quite alright. Annette was always the same way. She’d come to the faculty lounge with a stack of papers. Start off talking with me for a bit, then completely lose herself in grading.” She breaks off small pieces of each of the cookies and considers them carefully as she chews. “Very nicely done. If this is what you make when you’re rusty, I look forward to seeing what happens once you’re warmed up!”

I nod, smiling, as I pull the next batch of cookies out. “Thanks! I guess I’m just feeling inspired. Out of curiosity, how long did you work with my mom?”

“Oh, not very long. I was already emeritus when she started, but I enjoyed teaching Chaucer far too much to just give it up.” She eyes me consideringly. “I don’t think you were any older than five or six when I last saw you, and I know you were a toddler when she started. Perhaps three years? We kept in touch for some time afterwards, of course.”

I hum thoughtfully as I consider what else I can make. I stop, surprised, as a vague memory of the Canterbury Tales comes back to me. I turn back to Mrs. Abbotson quizzically. “Did I used to call you Doctor Liz?”

She looks at me fondly. “Remember that, do you? The first time we met was when you made a break from Annette’s office while she was distracted. You somehow found your way to my office, asked me who I was, and told me that I needed to read you a story. I ended up reading you most of The Knight’s Tale before you dozed off. Did better than most of my freshmen!”

I look away, embarrassed, as I mutter “At least I got to sleep before you got to the Miller or the Reeve.”

Chortling gleefully, she asks, “Oh? Been doing some additional reading?” I blush, nodding. She adds, “Well, good for you! Certainly worse things to be reading than 14th century bawdy stories!”

I throw myself back into the baking just to avoid further embarrassment.

The only way to describe the next six hours is to say that I turn into a baking machine. Sugar cookies, peanut butter cookies, oatmeal raisin cookies; two batches each of blondies and brownies, with and without walnuts; chocolate cupcakes with vanilla buttercream frosting and white cupcakes with chocolate buttercream; blueberry muffins, banana walnut muffins, and lemon poppyseed muffins.

I must have absorbed something from those cooking shows Mom used to watch, because I feel like I know exactly when and how to do everything. I haven’t even needed to check a recipe once! Better still, I’m multitasking through the whole process – there’s always something ready to go into the oven when the previous batch comes out. I feel like I could do so much more, but I’m constrained by both time and available ingredients.

Mrs. Abbotson tries to keep up at first, but ends up dozing off at the kitchen table around 2 A.M. It’s alright, though. I feel wired, like I can do anything I set my mind to. I just add the cleanup to my rotation.

By seven I’m putting the last batch of muffins in, finishing the cleanup, and getting everything labeled for the sale. Twenty minutes later, I nudge Mrs. Abbotson awake. “Doctor Liz? Time to wake up, you need to get cleaned up before church.”

“Annette? How…?” I manage not to flinch. “Of course, I’m sorry, Taylor. What are you still doing…” She trails off as she sees the cornucopia of baked goods I’ve prepared for her. “Oh, you dear, sweet girl…” She has tears in her eyes as she hugs me tightly. “Thank you, Taylor. Thank you. You’re an angel.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for taking me in last night and letting me help. Now get going, you don’t want to be late. As for me, I should probably be getting home.”

She peers at me knowingly. “Does Danny know you went out?” I blush and shake my head. “Then yes, you’d best be on your way. Here, take a few of these delicious smelling muffins with you.”

Now I just need to get home safe and sound and explain my being out in a way that keeps Dad from realizing I was gone all night. As I consider the problem, I realize that all I need is a bit of simple misdirection.

It’s a short walk back, and it’s actually a pretty nice morning for early January in the Bay. I stop on the way where one of the side streets gives me a clear view to the east. I take it in for a moment, the last fading colors of the sunrise, the clear blue of the sky, and the blue-gray of the bay itself. For the first time in months, maybe years, I feel at peace.

So much happened tonight, and it all seems so surreal. I reconnected with one of Mom’s friends. I helped a kindly old woman when she needed it. All that baking, I hadn’t even realized I could do that, and it’s going to help too – Doctor Liz and her church with the bake sale, the people who get to enjoy it, the people who get helped by the charity...

I’ve done something good, and it was all me. There’s nothing Emma could say or do to take this away from me.

Smiling softly, I make my way home.

I don’t try to sneak into the house, but I’m not especially loud about it either. Regardless, Dad is already up and waiting for me in the living room.

“Taylor, are you alright? I woke up this morning and you were gone.”

“I’m fine, Dad. I just needed to get out for a little while, get a little fresh air. I happened to run into Doctor Liz, and ended up helping her get ready for a bake sale.”

Dad blinks in surprise. “Lizzie Abbotson? Wow, I haven’t talked to her in years, I’m surprised you even remember her.”

I nod, smile, and offer the bag to him. “Muffin?”

Spoiler: Author’s note

Welcome to Path to Munchies, the extended edition. Updates are going to be very infrequent, even the parts that I’m rewriting into this longer, more fleshed out version.

I do, however, have a plan now. A plot, even!

This has been in the works for quite a while, but I’d especially like to thank UnwelcomeStorm, JinglyJangles, and anathematic, whose recent stories have helped put me into the mindset for writing a more mellow Taylor.

Mrs. Abbotson, midnight baker, is based loosely on my grandmother. She was an absolute spitfire and an avid baker. Unfortunately, her eyesight went before her inclination to bake did; this resulted in some very strange, very unfortunate concoctions.

Mrs. Abbotson, English professor and Chaucer fan, is based loosely on my high school English teacher; he also happened to live next door to my parents. He was quite the Chaucer fanatic, and even taught an elective focused primarily on the Canterbury Tales (which I didn’t take and he always harped on me for having missed). He was also rather perturbed that I went into IT instead of doing something sensible (i.e., writing).

So yes, Taylor actively ran three Paths here, but only sort of noticed the first one, and that only because of how out of context it appeared. The fact that she’s on prescription painkillers also contributed to writing the first one off as weirdness and not noticing the other two at all. Because yeah, it’s totally reasonable for someone to be a baking maestro based on some half remembered shows from Food Network, right?

I can’t speak to anyone else’s experience with Vicodin, but it left me higher than a kite when I was put on it after a minor surgery. I’m pretty sure someone could have walked me step by step through shanking a multidimensional space whale while I was like that and I wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual – before, during, or after.

To answer some of the questions that came up when the original was posted: Contessa still exists and still has PtV. Everything you know from canon, prior to the locker, is (probably) accurate. Taylor has the full PtV and the food requirement is still totally imagined.

It is Sunday, January 9th, 2011. Do you know where your cookies are? Taylor does.

Spoiler: QQ update

I'm resisting the urge to stop and re-edit all this. Instead, this is a repost/rehost of the story as it's posted on SB. I'll be transitioning a chapter over here every few days until I'm caught up, then I'll keep all copies current. For those of you who are new, welcome! For those who have read it before, welcome back! ...I'm almost positive I've (mis)quoted that from somewhere, but my Google-fu is failing me.

There's a slim chance I might try my hand at some smutty omake for this. If I do, I'll post them in NSFW and add a note here announcing their existence.

 

Danny Hebert – Tuesday, January 11

I lean on my desk with my head cradled in both hands. I just… I don’t know what to do.

It’s my fault.

After Annette… After, I wasn’t there for Taylor. Truth be told, I don’t know if anyone was. I’d sort of vaguely assumed Emma would help her, but looking back, I don’t think I’ve seen them together in two years.

I don’t think I’ve seen Taylor talk to anyone in two years.

What kind of father am I? ‘The shitty kind,’ whispers the little voice at the back of my mind. ‘The kind that practically abandons his daughter after her mother dies.’

Sure, we still make all the right noises at each other. “How was school?” “How was work?” But the answers never have any real content, we never actually talk. Reflecting on it, I know almost nothing about her life – classes, friends, hobbies, none of it. Nothing about who she is.

Sunday, though… It was like the old Taylor came back to visit. “Greetings, ineffective and morose paternal unit! I have returned from my grand adventure and, lo! I have brought forth the sacred muffins!”

They really were damn good muffins. I didn’t even know she could bake.

All through the morning, it was like she was finally remembering the cheerful girl she used to be, only a little older, a little more mature. We reminisced. Talked about Annette’s work, about Lizzie, about better days. By the time we finished a simple lunch of soup and sandwiches, though, I could tell she was exhausted. I suggested that she take a nap, and she didn’t protest.

For the first time in ages I felt like maybe I could reconnect with my daughter, learn how to be a better father.

Then Lizzie called to read me the riot act for letting my injured, underage daughter run around unsupervised at one in the morning. Also to ask if Taylor would be willing to help out with the next bake sale, but mostly just to let me know that I had once again failed at being a father.

I didn’t say anything to Taylor when she woke up. I couldn’t. She’d been so lively, so enthusiastic, I wouldn’t risk pushing her back down when she’d finally started pulling herself up.

I didn’t say anything, but I think she picked up on it anyway. As the evening wore on, her enthusiasm waned. By the time I went to bed, that awful, stilted silence was back.

I didn’t see her at all on Monday. She was asleep when I left for work, though I did look in on her to make sure she was alright. ‘To make sure she was still there.’ I ended up working late, too, and she’d already gone to bed by the time I made it home. It was looking like today would be more of the same.

I look at the phone for a minute, consider calling home. Just to say... What? ‘I’m sorry I’ve never been there for you. Don’t worry, I never will be.’ I don’t know what to say to her, or even how to begin rebuilding that connection.

A knock at the open door of my office distracts me. “Hey Danny, sticking around? We’re getting ready to order pizza, want in?” Carl Perkins; second shift manager. Good man. Been here almost twenty years.

“Sure thing, Carl. Where were…” I trail off as I happen to glance at the motivational poster next to my door.

“It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.”​

I remember my daughter, almost radiant in her enthusiasm Sunday morning. The stilted, sullen silence that same evening. “Actually, you know what? I think I’m going to pack it in, spend the evening with Taylor. Rain check?”

“No problem, man. Have a good evening, see you tomorrow afternoon!”

“Have a good night, Carl.” I pick up the phone and begin dialing.

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Taylor Hebert – Tuesday, January 11

I’ve been binge watching Food Network since my baking spree. It’s… not what I remember.

Back when I used to watch it with Mom, it was more “Here’s this dish, and here’s how you make it.” Informational. Instructional. Now it’s mostly this spiky haired doofus screaming about the beauty of the greasiest of greaseburgers. Worse, he’s like that obnoxious middle-aged guy who tries to act like he’s cool when talking to a bunch of teenagers. He’s like…

Oh God, he’s like a high strung Gladly.

Now I’m picturing it: Mr. Gladly sitting in Fugly’s, desperately trying to get attention while shouting about how awesome the burgers are. I bet I could totally talk him into doing it, too. I can practically imagine how the whole conversation would go.

I burst into giggles.

When the phone rings, I’m a little breathless and still sounding very amused. “Hebert residence.”

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, tentatively, “Taylor?”

“Oh, hi, Dad. Working late again?”

“Actually, I was just getting ready to leave, figured I’d call and see if you wanted me to pick up dinner on my way.”

I make sure I sound appropriately awed. “Wow, food that doesn’t come from a microwave?”

“Truly, a modern miracle.” He sounds almost… chipper. Relaxed? Relieved?

“Heh, sounds like you had a pretty good day.”

“You know, I think it’s getting better. So, what’re you in the mood for? Pizza? Italian? Maybe that place over on Crawford that had the really good grinders?”

“Hmm…” I consider the options, but none of them are really appealing. What else is there? What do I feel like eating? Oooh, egg drop soup! I’d really like some good Chinese food tonight, it’s been ages since we’ve had it! Just like that, I know exactly where to send him. “Hey, how do you feel about Chinese?”

“Chinese, huh? Wait, didn’t our usual place close last year?”

“Yep, but I heard about another one that’s supposed to be really good. Canton Star, it’s over at Central and Hillcrest, so it’s not too far out of the way. I can call in the order and it should be ready about the time you get there.” I don’t think I’ve heard of Canton Star before, but maybe this is like the thing with Doctor Liz again?

“Sure, I know where that is. Can you order my usual?”

“Mongolian beef, shrimp fried rice, no problem. Love you, Dad, drive safe!”

He pauses just long enough for it to be noticeable. “I love you, too, Taylor. I’ll see you soon.” Huh. He sounded a little stuffy, I hope he’s not catching a cold.

I take the two minutes and twenty four seconds I need to wait before calling the restaurant to review the other steps I need to take… that’s not right. Why do I need to wait? Oh, because if I call earlier, they accidentally switch the order and give us pork fried rice instead, right.

No. No, not right, what the hell, brain?

Still, I won’t really be speaking Cantonese, I’ll just be making the right sounds, like reading from one of those menus with a pronunciation guide. I really will sort of understand what he’s saying, but only because I already know.

What the actual fuck.

Right, no, I need to calm down. Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. I have a phone call to make, I can sort this out afterwards.

I dial the number that I’m now positive I didn’t know before. The other end is picked up on the third ring.

“Canton Star, how I take your order?”

«Good evening. I’d like to place an order for carry-out.» Oh, wow, this is just neat. I know I don’t know the language, but I actually sound fluent!

«Oh, hello! It’s nice to hear a native speaker! What can I get for you this evening?» Apparently, very fluent. He sounds genuinely pleased not to have to struggle with his English, though, so that’s a nice bonus.

«Sorry, I’m not a native, just a student with a very good teacher. I’d like one order of egg drop soup, an order of egg rolls, a large Mongolian beef, a small shrimp fried rice, a small General Tso’s chicken, and an order of almond cookies.»

«...and, almond cookies. Name, please?»

«Hebert, and we’ll be paying cash.»

«Alright, the total is $33.80, and your order should be ready in about 20 minutes.»

«Wonderful, thank you! Have a good evening!»

«You too, miss! Your accent is very good, be sure to keep practicing! Thank you for calling Canton Star!»

Ok, I have thirty four minutes before Dad gets home with dinner. Plenty of time to figure out what’s going on.

The weirdness definitely started Saturday night, or at least that’s the first incident that stands out. That whole thing with going out for cookies, that has to have been it. I need to think back and try to remember all the steps I took Saturday night and Sunday morning.

And just like that, I do. It’s like someone printed a bullet point list in my brain. It’s even context sensitive – I can focus on a specific part and understand how that step integrated with the broader plan.

Huh, there were three plans that night? Getting the cookies, which ended when Doctor Liz handed me the glass of milk. Baking, well, everything, which ended with waking Doctor Liz so that she could get it all to the church on time. Ok, that kind of makes sense – if I hadn’t decided to help out, our roles would’ve been reversed. I’d have just done cleanup duty while she concentrated on baking. ‘Helping,’ in the same way a little girl might help her…

Oh. That was really manipulative. I kind of feel bad about that, the last steps to actually get the cookies were a sympathy play, implying that I hadn’t baked since Mom died. Yeesh.

Then there was the plan to distract Dad from my being out all night. Wait, enjoying the sunrise was part of it? I needed to stop and savor my accomplishments so that I’d be appropriately cheerful when sidetracking Dad with my awesome muffins, even beyond the end of the plan.

I manipulated myself into feeling better. How is that even a thing? Still, I can’t really argue with the results – I really have been feeling better since Sunday morning, as if I stopped carrying around some huge weight that was dragging me down. I can’t remember when I last laughed as much as I have in the past few days. It’s been… Nice.

Then tonight, ordering dinner from a place I’d never heard of. Speaking a language I’d picked up maybe three words of from watching Dora the Explorer as a kid. All just to get good Chinese food delivered to me.

The connection is obvious. It’s all about the food, that’s the only common factor. Food as a goal, or as an instrument towards reaching a goal.

Ok, so… Powers? Yeah, I suppose that’s fairly obvious in hindsight.

Good news, I now have the ability to plan out all sorts of bizarre, food related events. Bonus, apparently it comes with a mental health plan any time I need it. I can see where being able to make myself understood in any language could be useful, too. The built in precision timekeeping is handy, but that seems to be more a side effect of the planning – knowing exactly when I need to take the next step.

Bad news, food planning?! What am I going to do? Throw pies at Kaiser until he surrenders?

...apparently, yes, that is a thing I could do. I resist the urge to preheat the oven.
PtV: Aw, but the pie thing sounds like fun!

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Spoiler: Author’s note

Danny’s inspirational quote is by Theodore Roosevelt.

Canton Star is an amalgam of two different Chinese places near me, but it’s apparently also a real restaurant. The phone greeting is, barring the name adjustment, exactly the greeting we get every time we call our usual place.

Path to Attitude Adjustment: I imagine Contessa running these frequently when she was younger, but needing them less often as time went by. Fun things like “I need to accept that these are the things I must do to save humanity,” or “I need to learn to ignore the cries for mercy.”

Spoiler: QQ update

Looking back at it again from almost six months on, there are a lot of adjustments I'd like to make – everything from minor tweaks to major rewrites. I've seen enough stories stall out for that kind of editing, though, that I'm going to hold off. I may rewrite it after I finish the main story, or I may just leave it be.

 

Spoiler: The Great Pie Plan

Just after posting part 2 on SB, there was a flurry of requests for what the pie plan looked like. Here it is in its original plot outline format. As popular as it is, I think it's one of the pieces most in need of cleanup/editing/expansion. Again, maybe after I finish.

It’s actually pretty sadistic. He basically gets nailed with a pie every time he goes out in public for the next four months. In costume, out of costume, day or night, it doesn’t matter. He shows his face outside, it gets pied within five minutes every time. On one notable occasion, he just sticks his head out a window and gets hit immediately.

The pie launchers are all simple, low tech solutions. Trebuchets, catapults, slingshots. Sometimes just gravity assisted drops from the top of a building.

During the first week, he attempts to have Krieg and Stormtiger deflect the pies. This backfires horribly when they inadvertently cause a passing semi to lose control; it jackknifes, and buries all three of them under its cargo of frozen pies. Krieg is heavily concussed, left behind in the confusion, and taken into custody.

At the start of the second week, Clockblocker calls him Pieser on PHO. The name sticks.

The other gangs begin to press in, sensing weakness. During a conflict with the Merchants, Skidmark is manipulated into layering multiple acceleration fields. The resulting pie launching rail gun is deemed a weapon of mass destruction by the PRT and confiscated.

Week four, he attempts to firebomb a bakery. Some carefully structured panels cause the initial explosion to launch an entire display case of pies at him. At least his armor stops the glass, mostly.

By the third month, he abdicates control of the Empire and stops wearing his costume entirely. It doesn’t help.

In the end, he tries to sneak over to the PRT building. It’s the longest he’s gone without getting pied since the start of the campaign. Shows up crying, turns himself in, begs for protection. Armsmaster accepts his surrender, gets ready to foam him for transport.

Bam! Pie drops from a ceiling panel just before the foam hits. He ends up with the pie tin glued to the top of his head for hours.

In the end, he’s just a broken shell of a man.

 

When this was originally posted on SB, this part was the brick wall I'd beat my head against for a couple of months. I didn't like how much of an infodump it was and I felt like a lot of the material wasn't very solid. I finally stopped agonizing, gave the assorted scenes a bit of a wrapper, gave it a rough polish, labeled the entire thing as being of plausible but dubious canon status, and got on with the rest of the story.

If I ever do a full rewrite, parts of this will likely return to full canon status, others... not so much.

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On modifying the great pie plan...

I begin pacing, lost in thought. The fact that I could even plan a way to use pies to force Kaiser to surrender is… promising. I mean, sure, that particular plan is somewhat impractical – the only thing I’d have time for is pursuing it. Hmm, that campaign earns me the rather unimaginative name Pieman, courtesy of the PRT. After Kaiser surrenders, the hot topic in the Bay is guessing who my next victim will be…?

Huh. The slow and meticulous psychological destruction of a Nazi over the course of several months gets me a rep as a villain. Who knew?

I poke at the plan, adjusting things, mostly just trying to get a feel for how this all works. If I want to have a life while pursuing it, the overall timeline extends to seven months. The added duration makes my reputation even worse, shifting from villain to dangerous, obsessive psychopath. Yeah, no, obviously the wrong direction there.

I adjust the plan again, adding a requirement that I’m recognized as a hero. Oh, ewww. A clown cop, really? No, I get it, it plays on the stereotype. But now I have to show up in person, the pies being hand delivered, as it were, and with all the style and panache of Mouse Protector at her cheesiest. She even comes to town to see if I want to be her sidekick.

Huzzah.

New name is Keystone, and I’m now looking at nine months to get him to surrender. It’s much less traumatic for him since I’m only hitting him when he’s in costume, and having me there in person just makes him dig his heels in harder.

Since the clown-pie thing is already kind of funny, I decide to emphasize the humorous elements even more. The end result is that I’m back to everyone thinking I’m crazy, but this seems to be the funny cartoon crazy instead of the scary serial killer crazy. The greasepaint is dropped in favor of a set of Groucho Marx glasses. I branch out into the classic gag props - seltzer bottles, joy buzzers, rubber chickens, and the mallets. All the mallets. The costume is, if anything, brighter than the clown suit was. This time I’m known as Pratfall.

It takes ten months to get him to surrender this way. Hey, and I actually beat him in a fight instead of destroying his will to live. Bonus, I get to play his helmet like a xylophone while he’s still in it.

Alabaster, on the other hand, now bursts into tears every time anyone hums the 1812 Overture around him. It seems I can use a few common household chemicals to turn manhole covers into scarily accurate improvised projectiles and he makes a convenient, self-resetting target. How could I resist?

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On PRT registration and power evaluation…

Setting that aside, I can’t resist a different experiment. I want to meet with the PRT, drink tea, and discuss how I can be a better hero.

The process of setting up the meeting would be kind of tedious. They advise that I come in costume, or at least in a basic disguise, so part of the plan includes shopping. I settle on a red trenchcoat and a basic domino mask. A black mock turtleneck, black slacks, black gloves, and black work boots round things out. Business casual by way of superhero.

Getting into the PHQ is a study in bureaucracy, even with an appointment. I’m handed over to a pair of researchers who ask me to establish my powers - one does all the talking, the other just takes notes. It’s all trivially easy - pick a number, guess a card, nothing remotely challenging when I already have the answers. After twenty minutes of tedium, I give in to frustration.

“Eight of hearts.”

“Miss, I haven’t drawn the next…”

“It’s still the eight of hearts. Then you skip four cards, followed by drawing the ace of spades, queen of spades, and four of hearts. You switch in a tarot deck to try to throw me off, but the card you draw is the knight of swords.

“For lunch you bought two hot dogs with extra cheese goop from the stand at 8th and Concourse. For breakfast you had … wow, is there any coffee in that pile of sugar? Sheesh, and a cheese danish. You’re not doing your cholesterol any favors, you’re going to have severe atherosclerosis at 46 and your first open heart surgery at 51.”

“I’m only 27…”

I just arch an eyebrow and continue. “Last night you ate three microwave burritos for dinner and spent the evening watching… Oh, gross, what the hell is that?” I take a moment to appreciate that I only have to deliver the line and am in no way required to actually know whatever the hell he was watching.

“Hey, I don’t have to justify myself to some teenager, Urotsukidōji is a classic…” He trails off awkwardly as he realises he just inadvertently confirmed my statement. “...that is, please refrain from revealing details about my personal life.”

His observer just snorts. “She got you good, Adam. She cleared the confirmation threshold ten minutes ago, you just kept pushing because you thought she was gaming the system.”

“Jack! The PRT has never proven the existence of a precog with the kind of scope and accuracy she’s claiming. It’s far more likely that she’s just able to say whatever is necessary to perpetuate this farce!”

“You should know by now that when it comes to capes, never say never. Even if that’s true, she’s still right, and that’s what we’re supposed to be checking. Now shush, you’re done for now.” Turning back to me, he adds, “You got a name, kid?”

“Fête.”

He jots it down. “Well then, Fate, let me just escort you to…” He trails off, smiling.

I nod. “Conference room 6.”

“Yep, that’s the one! And one of the heroes will be along to meet with you shortly. Want anything to drink while you wait?”

“Tea, please.”

I already know what’s coming, but asking for tea was the lesser evil. What I’m actually given is a can of what Dad always calls Advanced Tea Substitute - it’s almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. Cold, brown water with fake lemon and fake sugar. Still, the soda would’ve been flat and the coffee is even more sad than the tea.

Then I realize that the plan involves me sitting there, sipping on the not-tea, and waiting 37 minutes for a secretary to apologize for a scheduling mistake. I decide to set it aside for now.

--------​

On specificity...

How specific do I need to be? What if I want to make a plan to make Brockton Bay a better place by using food?

Well.

Today I’ve learned that yes, general plans work.

I’ve also learned that the most effective way to use food to improve the city is to kill people with it. Choking, poison, capitalizing on food allergies, apparently I’m not picky at all. Oh, and distracting one guy with a giant cookie at the wrong moment results in a concrete slab dropping on his head. Ouch. I don’t think I’ve even heard of Coil, how does killing him make things better?

Oh. Oh, wow. What a complete sleaze. No wonder the mouthy blonde is so happy about it. Blech. I feel like I need a shower and a gallon of brain bleach.

Thinking about it for a minute, this is actually really sad. “How do I make my city better? Well, first, these people need to die…” I guess direct application isn’t the way to go here. I… No, just… no. That did not mean that I wanted to find ways to get other people to kill them for me.

It’s like my subconscious is the offspring of Martha Stewart and Conan. “What is best in life? To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to bake a lovely casserole that will help you reconnect with your father.”

…

Any plan that involves giving Greg Veder a Segway and a cattle prod is a bad plan. Alright, the looks on their faces as he herds them across the mall is priceless, but still… Alright, yes, the kazoo chorus playing Ride of the Valkyries is a nice touch, and it’s oddly reassuring to know that there are that many people who would love to see all three of them taken down a notch.

Still, I’m with Yoda on this one. Using my powers to be a complete jerk to everyone who arguably deserves it is definitely the path to the dark side. Quicker, easier, more seductive, but definitely not where I want to go.

I make a mental note to revisit the casserole, though – it’ll be delicious.

--------​

On how sometimes losing is still winning…

Still, villains are people too. Maybe I could get them to actually help if I understood what drives them? What if I make a plan to meet with various villains, share a meal, and foster an understanding of why they’re villains?

Helping family. Fucked up by family. Fleeing family. Yeah, I know, Blondie, also forced at gunpoint by the epic asshole. Don’t think I didn’t see you pickpocketing and shoplifting your way through the Boardwalk. No, I would say that the difference between a street criminal and a supervillain is a matter of scale. No, I’m not going to keep arguing with you, we’re not even arguing, this is all… Fine, yes, “goal oriented, food related precog” is nice and succinct, but… I am not putting on weight!

Oh God. If I eat all the things my power says I should, I really am going to get fat. I’m going to need to get in shape and stay that way if I want to use my power effectively and still eat all this stuff.

…

Holy shit. My power comes with a personal trainer!

--------​

On history repeating…

I stop pacing in mid-step and realize I was about to faceplant into the wall. I’m filled with a strange sense of deja vu and feel the need to make sure the kitchen knives are still in their block. Weird.

 

Danny Hebert – Tuesday, January 11, 8:20 PM

We both drop on the couch somewhat gracelessly. The takeout had been pretty good and, while we kept the conversation light, we had actually talked a bit. It felt good, like maybe this gap wasn’t insurmountable.

But now the silence is back.

I glance at her, start to ask about what had been happening at school, and stop again. It’s not the right time – too much, too fast, and the atmosphere too comfortable. Now that we’re finally talking again, I don’t want to make her feel self-conscious about why some sick little fuck thought that…

No, temper. Don’t dwell on it. Definitely don’t want her to think I’m mad at her.

I focus on the TV, letting it distract me, letting me stop myself from overthinking this. Taylor seems pretty absorbed by this cooking contest, maybe looking for ideas…?

The distraction works all too well. The next time I glance at the clock, it’s only a few minutes to ten. Another wasted evening. Still, at least dinner itself went well. That’s progress, right?

Just as I get ready to make my excuses and go change for bed, she turns towards me and her body language shifts entirely. Gone is the awkward teenager, suddenly there’s a confident young woman demanding my undivided attention. “I’ve been thinking about trying to get into better shape…”

I cut her off immediately, of course. The doctor had mentioned that something like this might come up and told me to be positive but firm about it. “I wouldn’t worry about it. You’ve just been eating a little richer since you got out, and you haven’t been as active. It’s perfectly normal for you to gain a few pounds, and I’m sure they’ll drop right off when...” I trail off at her expression. Apparently I’d missed the mark entirely.

“What? Dad! No, it’s nothing like that. I really do just mean general fitness.” She pauses for a moment, obviously gathering her thoughts again. Or courage. Maybe both. Almost shyly, she finally continues. “I was wondering if you’d maybe like to join me? Spend a little time together…?”

I… How? How does she keep doing this? I struggle to find ways to reach out to her, and she makes it seem so simple. There’s no way I could turn her down, not when she’s looking so hopeful over something so simple. Not when she keeps handing me second chances like this. “Of course, sweetie. What did you have in mind?”

Her smile is brilliant. So much like Annette’s. “Just some calisthenics and maybe some running to start. I’ve been doing some research, and I have a plan for us! Don’t worry, I’ll get you up in the morning and make sure you have enough time so that you’re not late to work.”

--------​

Danny Hebert – Wednesday, January 12, 5:15 AM

My world is pain. As I soak in the hot shower, I’m absolutely certain that Taylor has a bright future as the most chipper drill sergeant the army never knew it needed.

She managed to talk me out of bed at four in the morning, then kept me moving through almost a full hour of warming up, exercising, and cooling down. Every time I started to flag, she was there with the smiles and enthusiasm and encouragement to get me to push myself just a little further. It all seemed so very reasonable at the time, especially since she was right there doing it with me.

I don’t think I’ve worked this hard since I was an actual dockhand.

I still can’t decide if she was manipulating me into keeping up or if she was genuinely that happy to be working out with me. And where does that girl get her energy? Even now she’s downstairs making breakfast. I shake my head. I can’t wait to see what a fifteen year old girl on a health kick considers to be a “great post-workout breakfast.”

I wince again as I reach to turn off the shower. Today is going to suck.

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Wednesday, January 12, 5:15 AM

Oh my God, this is insane. Where does Dad get his energy? The autopilot is the only way I managed to make it through that. Only way I’m still going now, for that matter.

Him, he slogged through on his own merits, and now he’s off showering and getting ready for a full day of work like it’s nothing. I thought I was in kind of OK shape, but I’ve obviously got a long way to go to even catch up to him.

I’m not entirely sure when I woke up this morning, but I’m nearly positive it wasn’t until after we were both downstairs and stretching. While it’s good to know my power will get me where I need to be if I let it, it’s also a warning that I definitely need to pay attention to the details of what each plan involves. I can just imagine accidentally following through on one of those test plans because I was asleep when it kicked off.

“Well, you see Armsmaster, I didn’t mean to kill Lung by making him choke on zhao ji. I just had this idea that I could do it and forgot to tell myself not to. Then I fell asleep and it all kind of happened on its own!” I’m sure I’d be able to convince him that everything was copacetic by smiling nicely and giving him a cupcake.

Which, wow, apparently wouldn’t be all that difficult. Maybe I could…? I mean, it’s just Lung…

No. No! Bad Taylor!

At least I know where all the repressed anger from the last couple of years went. Apparently if you compress it down into a tiny ball of murderous rage and wish desperately enough for help, it magically transforms into superpowers.

Whatever. Dad’ll be down for breakfast in another 1.37 minutes, so I turn my attention to plating.

--------​

Danny Hebert – Wednesday, January 12, 12:30 PM

I sigh and turn away from Excel hell. Really, it’s not as bad as it could be. Hiring is down a bit from last month, but that’s usually the case in January. On a more positive note, we’re actually up a bit from last year thanks to several construction projects that started in the summer. It also helps that Andy over at the Teamsters is throwing the work our way instead of going through Boston.

I lean back in my chair and suppress a wince. At least this morning wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. I mean, sure, I’m still a bit achy, but nothing unreasonable. I’ll admit, I’d been expecting some kind of tofu and twigs abomination when I got out of the shower, but Taylor really came through – scrambled eggs, toast, and some chopped fruit. Not only a completely reasonable breakfast, but pretty tasty as well.

She also somehow found the time to pack a lunch for me. Nothing complicated, tuna on wheat, a small spinach salad, and more fruit. As I set it out and begin eating, I’m not at all surprised at how good it is despite it being “healthy.” Everything is seasoned perfectly, another hallmark of Taylor’s recent culinary experiments.

Really, she’s been doing a lot of cooking in the last few days, and she’s been surprisingly good at it for having so little experience. Makes me wonder what she could do with better ingredients. I suppose I could take her to one of the nicer stores downtown instead of our usual…

I’m startled out of my musing by my phone ringing. I pick it up and give my standard greeting, “Dockworkers Local 42, Hiring Office. This is Danny Hebert, how can I help you?”

The voice that answers is a bit rough, with just a hint of Southern drawl. “Mr. Hebert, this is Detective Kincaid with the Brockton Bay Police Department. We spoke briefly last Monday at Brockton Bay General?”

I sit up and reach for a pen. “Of course, Detective, I remember. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to arrange a time to get a more detailed statement from your daughter.”

I’m going to bury the little shits, how’s that for a statement. Deep breath. Calm. “Does that mean that you’ll be pursuing charges?”

“The decision about whether to press charges will be made by the DA, and her decision will be based on what we find. Beyond that, there’s some concern that the attack on your daughter may be related to another case.” The cadence of his voice is actually very soothing. ‘wheTHAH to press CHAHges…’

Wait. “Another case? What do you mean?”

“It’s already been on the news, Mr. Hebert, so I’m not telling you anything you mightn’t already know. Were you aware that one of the Winslow staff went missing that same morning?”

I nod along, “Right, I did hear about that. The, uh… The librarian, right? But how does that relate to Taylor?”

“Theresa Romano was last seen running out of the library at around 7:45 AM. Based on witness statements, that was moments after the attack on your daughter started. We’re looking at the possibility that the entire attack was staged as a distraction to cover up the abduction.”

“Motherfucker!” Crap, I said that out loud. “Uh, sorry. It’s just been, uh…”

He laughs wryly and seemingly shrugs it off. “Not a problem, Mr. Hebert, I understand completely. I have a daughter a few years younger than your Taylor, I’d be pretty worked up myself if anything happened to her. Now, about that statement…?”

“Right, of course. Hold on just a moment, let me check my calendar real quick…” Matching action to word, I confirm that I don’t have anything urgent scheduled. “How would tomorrow morning be?”

“Thursday morning? That’d be just fine, Mr. Hebert, just fine. Say, 10:00 AM?”

“Yes, 10:00 AM works. Where should we go?”

“I’m in the first precinct, just up the block from City Hall. When you sign in at the main desk, let them know that you’re there to see me and I’ll come down to pick you up.”

“Thank you, Detective Kincaid. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Have a good afternoon, Mr. Hebert.”

I sigh and drop the handset back in the cradle. Part of me feels guilty at missing another day of work, but I squash that reflex. Taylor needs me more, and I have time off to spare. It’s been years since I’ve used any significant amount of my vacation time.

Just as I start towards the door to let everyone know I’ll be out tomorrow, my phone rings again. I grumble wordlessly and drop back into my chair. “Dockworkers Local 42, Hiring Office. This is Danny Hebert, how can I help you?”

The voice this time is younger, female; local accent, precise speaker. “Mr. Hebert, this is Dr. Loretta Cassidy, Assistant Superintendent for Brockton Bay School District 303. I was hoping to speak with you and your daughter regarding the recent… unpleasantness and how District 303 may best provide for her ongoing academic needs.”

“I see,” I hedge to buy time and gather my thoughts. “I spoke with Principal Blackwell last week, Dr. Cassidy. She seemed to feel that nothing needed to be said regarding the,” I pause, then finish the sentence with as much condescension as I can squeeze into it, “unpleasantness.”

“Yes, ah, well…” Uncertainty. I give myself the first point. “Principal Blackwell is currently on administrative leave pending review. Upon consideration of the statements of the witnesses to the altercation…”

“Witnesses?” I interrupt. “My, Principal Blackwell was certain that nobody had seen the alleged altercation at all.”

“The police have been very liberal in suggesting that the witnesses could be charged as accessories in a Federal kidnapping case,” she responds wryly. Point to her, she kept her cool this time. I guess Kincaid’s kidnapping investigation has loosened some lips. Cassidy’s next statement confirms my thought.“This seems to have motivated several people to speak up.” She pauses again, then continues, “I understand they started with the ones who posted pictures to social media.”

I clamp my jaw tight. Pictures. “I see.” Another point to her. Damn.

The woman sighs. “Mr. Hebert, I am not your enemy. I cannot speak as to what Principal Blackwell was attempting to accomplish; for my part, I am sincere in my desire to see this situation resolved to your satisfaction. What has been happening to your daughter is abominable. To be blunt, it sickens me that an ongoing campaign of harassment has occurred within sight of school personnel and that they have done nothing to stop it.”

Campaign. Not a singular event. Not just recent occurrences. How blind have I been? Just how badly have I failed my daughter? The sound of the phone creaking in my hand startles me back to awareness. “What is it that you want, Dr. Cassidy?”

“I meant what I said, Mr. Hebert. I hope to speak with you and your daughter about how best to meet her academic needs. While academic sabotage spanning the course of her high school career obviously complicates matters, if she is willing to sit the placement exams, a transfer is certainly one possible solution.”

...the course of her…

--------​

Spoiler: QQ notes

Not a lot to say about this one; essentially a transition chapter as the plot finally starts kicking into gear, but some nice interaction with Danny and Taylor. This is the chapter where I finally fully committed to my outline and finishing the story.

 

Taylor Hebert – Wednesday, January 12 – 6:40 PM

“The assistant superintendent for your school called me today.” Dad’s voice is weirdly neutral, like he was observing something of mild interest. ‘It’s very cloudy today. The second step needs to be replaced. The superintendent called me.’

I look up from my plate. “Are they going to settle?”

He just watches me for a minute before replying, “Yes, most likely.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and look back down at my plate. Beef stroganoff. Fairly easy stuff, but with my power, it’s absolutely perfect. “Well. That’s, uh. That’s good, right?” I glance up again and continue, “I mean, that we won’t have to worry about the hospital bills?” He’s frowning now. Is something wrong? Did I screw up the dinner somehow? Should I have made something else? We had stroganoff once in a while when Mom was alive, but haven’t had it since… Was he just humoring her? Oh God, he hates it, I’ve screwed up everything…

“Taylor, we were never going to have to worry about the medical bills. We have health insurance. At worst, all we would’ve had to cover was the copay, and we can easily afford that. That’s…” He pauses again, then seems to muster his resolve. “The money, that’s never been what was important here.”

“Dad…? I don’t… What?” I’m left fumbling for words. Why didn’t I include dinner conversation in my plan tonight? It worked so well last night and this morning…

He’s… His eyes are… Is he crying…? “Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think you couldn’t trust me, that I wouldn’t do everything I could to help you, to support you?”

Tell him…? Oh my God, he already figured it out?! “How…? When…?”

I’m not sure if he even heard me. He’s not looking at me as much as he’s looking through me right now, and just slowly shaking his head. “The last year and a half, and you never breathed a word.”

“What? No, I’ve only had my power for a few days! I only just realized it last night!”

We stare at each other for a moment. I can’t imagine what’s going through his mind, and I…

Oh. Oh, fuck my life. He was talking about Emma. I facepalm and grumble, “I can’t get off the Vicodin soon enough.”

--------​

Danny Hebert - Wednesday, January 12 - 6:45 PM

I need to leave. I need time to gather my thoughts. This whole day has been way too much. I need to just stand up and walk away before I…

No. No, that’s the worst possible thing I could do right now. My daughter needs my support, not my silence. What would Annette do? No, I know this. The first thing I need to do, the best thing, is to keep us talking.

I’ve already been quiet too long. Taylor is looking at me like a frightened animal. I don’t want to see that look on her face any more.

“Your power. Ok. Ok. We’ll… We’ll come back to that. Later. Alright?”

She nods rapidly. “I… Yeah. Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

I cut her off. “It’s alright. I’m not angry. Really, really worried, but not angry. But let’s just… One thing at a time, yeah?”

She nods again and slumps in her chair.

“So…” Right, great one, Danny boy. There’s that Hebert charm. She glances up at me and away. We need to push forward, to talk through this. I guess… Direct? “What happened between you and Emma that started all this?”

“I don’t know,” she wails plaintively. “When I got back from camp two years ago, she just turned mean! I tried talking to her, and it just got worse and worse and… Oh!” She has a look of revelation as she murmurs, “I could use my power to find out and…”

I raise my hand and command, “Stop!” Once I’m sure I have her attention again, I continue. “We’ll talk later about your power and what you can and should do with it,” I explain as she blushes. “Right now, let’s just get through this, alright? Get your old man up to speed?”

She nods and says, “Alright. Sorry…”

I muster up a smile for her, but I don’t think it’s very convincing. “Like I said, I’m not angry. I’m just… Lost. I need you to talk me through it. Well, not, you know, anything you don’t… can’t… I don’t want to make you relive anything, and Dr. Cassidy…” At her look of confusion, I clarify, “the assistant superintendent, she was able to give me a rough outline.”

Oh. There’s that Hebert temper. I’d hoped she hadn’t inherited that from me. She practically hisses out, “They knew?!”

“They know now,” I reply as I shake my head. “The kidnapping investigation got the other students to finally come forward. The further they dug into it, the worse it looked for Winslow, especially after they found your complaints from last year and Ms. Romano’s reports from this fall.”

She’s obviously off balance now. “Kidnapping…? What…?”

“Ms. Romano disappeared the morning you were… attacked. The police think it may be related, that the attack on you may have been staged as a distraction.”

She shrieks piercingly, “She’s missing?!” As it echoes through the room, I have to wonder if that’s her power. Some kind of sonic manipulation like that singer…? Is that how she wanted to find out…? No, focus, one thing at a time.

Obviously, “You knew her?” At her frantic nod, I continue. “I’m sorry. I’m still screwing this up. But yes, she’s missing. It’s been on the news all week. We’re, uh… We’re supposed to go to the station tomorrow for you to give them a statement. About the attack, that is. They’ll likely want to interview you about Ms. Romano as well, in case you know anything that might help the investigation. If you’re willing to, that is.”

“I… Yes, of course. I…” She frowns, as if thinking something over carefully.

As the silence drags on, I prompt her. “Taylor?” Her expression is dropping, turning to panic. “Taylor? What is it?”

She mumbles to herself frantically, “I don’t… I can’t… Why can’t… If she’s… No, that’s not…”

I get up, walk around the table, and squat down next to her. “Taylor? Honey, you’re scaring me, what’s wrong?”

She finally turns to face me, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t find her. Why can’t I find her?!”

--------​

Jared Kincaid – Thursday, January 13 – 7:30 AM

I take a sip of my coffee as I sit down. Captain Keeshan is sorting through files, so I let him sort. After a few minutes, he finally turns his attention to me. “How’s the mess at Winslow looking, Kincaid?”

“Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Which did you want first?”

“Kincaid…”

“Right, easy part first, the kids. We’ve got Hess. Too overconfident in front of too many witnesses, she just assumed nobody would talk because nobody had before. Her case worker has already whisked her away. Her file might be sealed, but I’m willing to wager that she thoroughly violated whatever the terms of her probation were. We won’t be seeing her again.

“Barnes, unfortunately, was born lawyered up. Worse, we can’t actually pin anything on her other than harsh language. Whether she was trying to be careful or just didn’t want to get her hands dirty, we’ve got nothing on her other than being a rude little shit. Clements is pretty much the same – we might convince the DA to go for accessory if she turns her head and squints at it, but realistically, we’ve got jack and shit.

“I’ve got the Hebert girl herself coming in later this morning to give a formal statement. I’m not expecting much more than we got from the other kids, but maybe she’ll be able to shed some light on the background. On a brighter note, she was apparently close to Romano while she was there, so that might be something.”

The captain frowns as he skims the notes, then looks up questioningly. “Really? Just the three, and we’ve only got one of them?”

“Yes, sir, those are the only three names that keep coming up. Way I see it, Barnes was the driving force, she’s the one with an axe to grind, the one who put the others onto Hebert. I’ve got Hess pegged as the muscle. She’s got a reputation for being violent, and then there’s that sealed record and case worker. I’m not sure where Barnes managed to find herself a fifteen year old girl as an attack dog, but she was definitely a loyal one. Clements was the idea man. Girl. Whatever. Barnes gave them direction, Clements told them how to do it, Hess did it. The rest of the kids are just suck ups, sheep following the herd.”

The captain shakes his head. “Any thoughts on how it ties in with Romano?”

I shrug. “I’ve got nothing. They’re obviously not ABB or Empire, the Hess girl is black, the other two, white. Merchants don’t seem to fit. Clements and Barnes are squeaky clean – if they’re using, they’re discreet in a way the Merchants just aren’t. I’d peg Hess for roids over H, and the Empire runs that business. Could be someone knows somebody who knows somebody, leaked the timing and they were able to use it.”

“What a fucking mess. Any chance it’s just a coincidence?”

I shake my head. “No way, Captain. Have you seen the security video yet?”

He looks startled. “Wait, there’s video?”

“Eh, sort of, but don’t get your hopes up. Camera system is a piece of crap, apparently it spends more time not working than working. Coverage is hit or miss, too. Still, someone definitely tried to wipe it. Lab boys recovered what they could, just finished this morning. There’s not much to see, more slideshow than video.”

“Video is video, Kincaid, and juries love video. Anything useful on it?”

I shake my head again and sigh. “Not for Romano, maybe a little for Hebert.” I pause for a moment, mentally replaying what I saw. “We’ve got Romano checking her phone, then rabbiting out of the library. Last shot we’ve got of her, she’s convulsing in the hall on the floor above the Hebert attack. Can’t tell if someone tazed her, drugged her, or if she just dropped. Next coverage we’ve got, she’s gone – no sign of her anywhere in the building or on the grounds.”

The captain frowns and sighs, “Of course. It’s never that easy. How big’s the gap?”

“More than five minutes, nearly six. More than enough time to either move her out or stash her somewhere.”

“Damn it. Fine, alright. What does the video add to the Hebert case?”

I shrug. “We’ve got Hess strong arming her, but nothing more. Helps corroborate the witness testimony, but doesn’t really add much.”

“Alright, but what makes you so sure they’re linked?”

“The timing. The witnesses on both put ‘em close together, but the video really drives it home.”

The captain rolls his eyes. “You’re not Columbo, Kincaid. Spit it out.”

“Romano checked her phone seconds before the attack on Hebert started, then bolted in her direction. Another 20 feet, she’d have made the stairway to the first floor and within easy range of stopping it.”

“Shit, and you said Hebert and Romano were close?”

“Yep. I figure someone tipped off Romano, sent her straight into a trap.”

“Great, the feds are just going to love that. ‘Your agent went missing when she tried to save a schoolgirl from a pack of other schoolgirls.’ They’re going to blame this on us, I know it,” the captain mutters as he rubs his temples.

“Shit, are they still on your back? If they’re not happy, why don’t they drop this cloak and dagger bullshit and do their own damn investigation? Fuck ‘em, they still haven’t even told us which part of the alphabet soup Romano was with.”

“Agent Cooper insists that releasing that information could ‘jeopardize the ongoing investigation.’ Prick. Still, I say smart money is on DEA or FBI. Winslow is a pit, they could’ve been trying to tie someone to something.”

“Fish and Wildlife, Captain. Those kids are animals.”

He chuckles, the cloud finally lifting for a moment. “Don’t you have a daughter, Kincaid?”

“Sure, but Ivy’s a sweetheart. Like you said, Winslow’s a pit. I’m never letting her near the place, especially not after what I’ve seen of it in the last week.”

--------​

Danny Hebert - Wednesday, January 12 - 6:55 PM

I hug Taylor as she sniffles. “You can’t find her? I don’t understand…” Until I suddenly do. “Your power?”

She nods against my chest. “It’s… It’s a little weird, ok?”

I smile down at her, though she can’t see it. “I think that describes all parahuman powers, dear.”

She snorts, hiccups, and bats at my shoulder. “Dad! No, I mean it. It’s just…”

“Yes?”

“It’s food planning.”

I take a moment to roll the idea around in my head. The recent, surprisingly good, surprisingly competent cooking spree. “So, like planning a healthy meal to give your old man for lunch? One that he’d enjoy and eat without complaint?”

She leans back into her chair and looks up at me, smiling again, though her eyes are a little watery. “Exactly. But there’s… There’s more.”

“Alright, go on.” I make my way back to my own seat and eye the stroganoff curiously. It didn’t taste weird or anything. I mean, it was actually good. But, powers…? Is it safe?

She looks down shyly. “I can also plan for everything around the food.”

I frown. “Define, ‘everything.’” Looks like noodles and meat sauce. Nothing strange about it. Looks right, smells right, tasted right. Texture was fine. Noodles weren’t soggy, sauce wasn’t too rich…

“I mean really, really everything. Like if I, say, wake up in the middle of the night and want cookies…”

I blink, startled, and look up. “That’s how you found Lizzie?”

She nods agreeably, “Yep. And I knew what to say, how to say it, how to adjust my body language…”

“Taylor,” I ask bemusedly, “did you go out Saturday night and scam a sweet old lady for fresh baked cookies?”

Her eyes dart to the side. “Um… Maybe?” She continues after a moment, “But I really did help her, too.”

I nod, taking a thoughtful bite of the noodles. Still seems like normal food. Well, really good normal food. “I believe it. Just how long did you spend over there creating perfect food for her bake sale?”

She looks at me again, eyes wide. “You knew?”

I nod sagely. “Dad sees all, Dad knows all.”

“She sold me out, didn’t she.”

“Yep. So how long?” She mumbles something. “What was that?”

“About seven hours.”

Oh dear. “Just how much did you bake?”

As she starts reciting the list, I keep a running tally. I finally burst out laughing.

“What,” she asks while frowning at me. “What is it?”

“You may have scammed her out of a few cookies and a muffin or three,” I reply with a snicker, “but she took you for north of $800 in baked goods. No wonder she wanted to borrow you again for the next one, you probably helped her take in more money than any three other people there.”

Her jaw just drops. “She…! That…!”

I smile knowingly. “Lizzie always was a sharp one.”

--------​

Jared Kincaid – Thursday, January 13 – 11:20 AM

I continue to page through the, frankly, horrifying journal. Jesus, these fucking kids. They’re not animals, they’re goddamn monsters. “Thank you, Miss Hebert. This,” I pause, frowning, as I read a particularly disturbing email. “This helps establish a pattern of behavior. In conjunction with the testimony of the other witnesses…” She snorts. Yeah, kid, I know. Lying little shits, it’s all ‘see no evil, hear no evil’ until the big bad police show up, then they’re like rats on a sinking ship. Can’t turn on each other fast enough.

“Regardless, I believe that concludes the statement of Taylor Hebert regarding case 11-228537-6. Thank you for your time this morning, Miss Hebert.” With that, I stop the recording. “Now, I’m certainly not going to discuss an ongoing investigation. But if I were to make an observation, it’d be something like ‘Hess done fucked up.’ What she did, she did in front of more than twenty eyewitnesses.”

For the first time this morning, the kid looks genuinely surprised. “She’s… She’s actually being arrested for…?”

“Like I said, not going to discuss an ongoing investigation. But I’d be amazed if you ever saw her again. Still, that’s only one of the three…”

“No, Detective Kincaid, I understand, I’ve done the research. Most of what the others did is a disciplinary matter for the school rather than a criminal one. While some of it might be usable for a harassment charge…”

I sigh, and decide to give it to her straight. She seems the type to appreciate that. “Any halfway decent lawyer will try arguing it down to malicious mischief at most, and with Barnes…”

She nods knowingly, then bats her eyes innocently, “‘But I never actually did anything to her. It’s not a crime to just not like someone, is it?’” Heh. I haven’t heard more than two sentences from the Barnes girl, but that seems spot on.

“Yeah, that’s it. Honestly? I’d be amazed if it even got to trial. It’d likely get dropped entirely.”

She sighs and nods. “I know. Like I said, I did the research. There’s a reason I never tried going to the police before. Bet never developed the same kind of anti-bullying legislation that Aleph did.”

Huh, she’s not joking about doing the research. The more she talks, the more I like this kid. She’s a real sharp cookie, has a good eye for detail, and a good memory. Plus she’s a real trooper, just spent forty minutes recounting the whole shit show and didn’t do more than sniffle a few times. I was a bit more wary of the dad - union guys have a well deserved rep – but he hasn’t done more than hold her hand and be supportive. Seems like a nice family, shame they had all this dumped on ‘em.

Eh, that’s enough woolgathering. “On a possibly not-unrelated note… If you don’t mind, and with your father’s permission, of course, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Theresa Romano.”

She glances at her father who, after eying me for a moment, simply gives her a nod. She smiles sadly and says, “Of course, Detective, I’d be happy to.”

“I appreciate it, Miss Hebert. Give me a moment to switch tapes and get a fresh pad and we’ll begin.”

“Could I trouble you for another cup of tea as well?”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Wednesday, January 12 – 7:15 PM

Dad’s looking a little shell shocked. “Taylor, that’s… I don’t…” He gathers his thoughts for a moment, then smirks. “Pratfall, huh?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. But still, you see what I mean about ‘everything,’ right?”

He nods. “From what I understand, that’s amazingly versatile.” Frowning, he adds, “But about Kaiser…”

I wave my hands frantically, “No, no, definitely not. I just wanted you to understand the scale. And that it, uh, basically fires off every time I think about planning or doing something.”

He eyes me speculatively for a moment. “So,” he seems to be talking it out as he goes, “if you were to think about wanting to be in better shape…”

“It might just give me an entire diet and exercise plan to accomplish that. And if I, uh, wanted to maybe reconnect with my dad at the same time…”

He smiles softly, taking the bite out of his words. “It might just drag him along for the ride.”

We smile goofily at each other for a minute. This is nice, actually, you know, talking things out. I missed this. I wish Mom could’ve been here too, but for the first time in years, that’s more wistful than desperate.

He finally breaks the silence. “So what was the problem with finding Ms. Romano?”

I frown, maybe he didn’t quite get ‘everything’ yet. “Ok, let me put it this way. If it’s possible and I can link it to food, I can do it.”

He nods, prompting me along, “Right…?”

“No, I mean even vaguely, one in a billion longshot possible.”

His eyes go wide again. “Anything?”

“Anything,” I state decisively. “If I want to bribe Eidolon with food to get him to clear the wrecks from the bay…” I take a quick moment to skim the surprisingly short plan. “Apparently he’s more willing to do it because he’s interested in my power, thinks we could play a great joke on a friend of his… But he’s partial to TexMex. Huh, I wonder if that’s why he works out of… Ah, no, he actually learned to love it while there.”

“Taylor, that’s…”

“But if I want something that’s just impossible, like if I want to have burgers with Elvis…” Huh. “Uh, yeah. Um. Anyway, if I wanted to have burgers with President Kennedy, I just get an impression, like ‘Can’t get there from here.’“

Dad raises an eyebrow. “Elvis,” he states blandly.

I blush. “Iowa. Shush. But you know how web pages work?”

“No…? Not really…” Crap, I’m losing him.

“No, no, I don’t mean how they work work, just that if you type in a good address, you get a page, but if you make a typo you just get an error? It’s like that.”

He thinks it over for a moment. “Alright, so when you try to find Ms. Romano, you get the error? Does that mean…?”

I cut him off before he can say it. “No, that’s what’s weird. I don’t get anything at all. Instead of getting an error message, it’s like the computer itself spontaneously disappears.”

--------​

Jared Kincaid – Thursday, January 13 – 11:30 AM

“Would you please describe how you knew Ms. Romano?”

“I first met her in early October 2010. I… There was a slight misunderstanding at our initial meeting.”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Thursday, October 7, 2010 – 11:15 AM

“Exactly what do you think you’re doing?”

Great, the new librarian caught me hiding in a study carrel and trying to pick pencil shavings out of my hair. With my luck, she’s probably going to accuse me of vandalising it or littering or something. “Nothing.”

“You’re going to ruin your hair if you keep trying to pick that mess out that way. Come along, I have an extra comb you can use.”

What.

--------​

Jared Kincaid – Thursday, January 13 – 11:30 AM

“What was your impression of Ms. Romano?”

“She was… is a very precise, very meticulous woman. She has no tolerance for what she calls ‘foolishly irresponsible behavior.’ She… I… I’m not overstating things when I say that I owe her my sanity at this point.

“Under her supervision, the library was a sanctuary. She let me study there, even knowing I was cutting class to get away from the bullies. Sometimes she’d even turn my homework in for me, keeping it out of their hands. It’s thanks to her that I was able to bring my grades up as much as I did this year.” She sniffles for a moment, then presses on. “Shortly after… after she essentially appointed herself as my defender, the bullying…

“I won’t say it stopped. It didn’t. But the level of it, the amount, the intensity… They scaled back. They became cautious, hesitant. From October until last week…” She pauses again, seemingly lost in thought.

I note for the recording, “Miss Hebert is referring to the incident that took place on the morning of Monday, January 3, under case number 11-228537-6.” Prompting her, I ask, “Did Ms. Romano ever mention why she took the position at Winslow?”

She shakes her head. “No, not really. Not in any specific detail. I know she was only there for the year, that there was a project she was working on. I had the impression that she didn’t really care for Winslow or actually like her job there in any meaningful way, just that it was convenient for her to be there.”

“Do you recall when you last saw Ms. Romano?”

She nods readily, “Yes, it was the Friday before Christmas break. That was, uh… The 17th? Yeah, that sounds right, Friday, December 17. By that point, she’d begun helping me study. Not giving me answers or anything, just… Helping me learn how to find my own answers. When we were the only ones there, she even encouraged me to call her by her nickname. She was… She was like a mentor to me, a role model like I haven’t had since Mom…” She pauses again, glances at her father. He’s just winced. Yeah, that’s still an open wound for both of them.

“The last time I saw her, she was helping me practice my Spanish. I had a test that afternoon, and she was a polyglot. She had a fantastic, practically native accent in every language I heard her…” She pauses again, frowning. “Sorry, random thought. Anyway, she would quiz me, ask me questions and have me answer in Spanish.”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Friday, December 17, 2010 – 1:30 PM

“And what are you doing here this afternoon?”

“Estoy estudiando en la biblioteca con Tessa.”

“Very good, Taylor,” she smiles. “Very good indeed. I think you’re quite ready now, don’t you?”

--------​

Spoiler: QQ update

Part 4 is the conclusion of the first miniarc, even though the title labeling doesn't do anything to indicate that. As I commented elsewhere, I broadly define the first arc as “What the hell is going on?”

I think the biggest problems with parts 3 & 4 is that, having finally gone all in with the plot, they're almost a complete departure from 1, 2, and the Bits & Pieces omake. If I ever do rewrite it, I see some of the plot elements getting spread through more evenly.

 

Taylor Hebert – Saturday, January 15 – 6:30 PM

We’re both sprawled on the couch, just watching TV and relaxing after a stressful few days.

No, “stressful” isn’t strong enough. This week has been insane.

Discovering my power on Tuesday, then accidentally revealing it to Dad on Wednesday. Finding out about Ms. Romano’s disappearance and my power’s inexplicable inability to work on her. The police interview Thursday morning, then meeting with the Assistant Superintendent that same afternoon. Taking the placement exams on Friday, getting the confirmation that evening.

I start at Arcadia this coming Tuesday. It’ll be a fresh start, well away from anyone who knows me. I’ll never have to see Winslow again.

Dad and I are finally reconnecting – he even made dinner tonight. Maybe not as good as I could have done, but not bad for an amateur.

I giggle to myself, then slap a hand over my mouth. I glance at Dad – yeah, he caught that. He’s looking amused again.

Still, I feel like there’s something else I wanted to talk to him about. Oh, I remember…

--------​

Danny Hebert – Saturday, January 15 – 6:30 PM

This week has been incredibly difficult, but hopefully all the major revelations are done for now.

“Dad,” Taylor asks hesitantly, “can we talk about something?”

Right. Heberts are never that lucky. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t want to join the Wards.”

I nod, having expected as much, “Alright.”

She continues, probably not having registered my agreeing. “I did think about it… I mean, I didn’t think think about it, you know, but I considered the option, and I don’t want to have to deal with more teenage drama right… Wait, what?”

I muster a smile and confirm, “I said, ‘alright.’ You don’t have to join the Wards.”

Frowning, she goes on, “But I still want to make a difference in the city, to make things better…”

I interrupt, “To go out and help people. Of course.”

She’s so adorably confused right now. “I… You… That’s it, just, ‘Alright, don’t join the Wards?’”

“While I’d still like you to keep the option in mind, I’m not going to try to force you to join them. I know you don’t feel like you can trust your peers right now, so I won’t press the issue. Besides…” I take a moment to gather my thoughts. “The way you explained your power – it finds a way to do what you want. You can add any conditions you like, and either it’s possible and tells you how or it’s impossible and tells you as much, right?”

She nods tentatively, “Yeah, that’s basically it.”

“Then the way I see it, as long as you make it a condition to keep yourself safe, that’ll do far more than any promises the Protectorate could ever make.” The sniffle gives me enough warning to brace for impact, and I once again find myself with an armful of crying teenager.

It’s not that simple, of course. I do wish that she’d join the Wards – it would give her a support structure, give her people who understand what she’s going through. But if her power works the way she says it does, I know that she could use it to get away from the Wards, to completely mislead me… In short, to do whatever she set her mind to. Better to keep her talking than have her think she needs to hide everything from me. Again.

Because if she decides something needs to be hidden now, I’ll never know about it.

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Saturday, January 15 – 6:40 PM

That was… I can tell he’s still worried, but he’s just like, “I believe in you,” like it’s the simplest thing ever. “You’re Taylor Hebert, of course you can take better care of yourself than the Protectorate could.”

Once I get my emotions under control again, I give him a big smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

He just nods and hands me a box of tissues. “I do have another condition, though.”

Another…? I frown as I blow my nose. “What is it?”

He just shakes his head. “Nothing too burdensome. Just, before you start following one of your plans for, uh… Heroing? Just talk to me about it first, the added perspective might help.”

“But why?” Damn it, I thought he understood. “The plans cover everything about how to do them and they accomplish everything I want done.”

“Repercussions.”

And now I’m confused again. “What?”

“The thing with Kaiser and the pies,” he begins slowly. “You told me about several scenarios, but you mentioned something in the first one that I’d like to know more about. Can you, um, bring that plan up again?”

I nod hesitantly, “Alright, sure.” Once again I focus on throwing pies at Kaiser until he surrenders. “Got it.”

“You said that after a few weeks, the other gangs would start putting pressure on him. Can you tell me more about that?” At my look, he continues, “What kind of pressure, what they’re doing and where? That sort of thing.”

I know I’ve got the ‘I don’t understand what you’re doing, crazy old person, but I’ll humor you’ tone, but I agree. “Uh, sure. Let’s see… First, the ABB begins pushing into E88 territory. After four days of skirmishes between the unpowered troops, Oni Lee will begin conducting serial bombing… runs…” I trail off. Oh… Oh no… Frantically, I shuffle through the other plans, but the effects are all similar.

ABB attacks. Merchant attacks. Coil pulling faux-Bond villain bullshit, sometimes directly, sometimes through his patsies. Slowly escalating hostilities to the inevitable conclusion.

Gang war.

Dozens of civilian casualties at best, hundreds at worst. No. No, that’s not acceptable. I push that feeling into my power and…

The simplest, uncostumed variants are now impossible – they only work if I utterly destroy Kaiser, break him publicly and make a spectacle of it. Keystone and Pratfall are still viable, but first I have to establish myself as a surprisingly capable independent before targeting Kaiser specifically. As long as I don’t make him look like an incompetent buffoon, as long as I don’t make the E88 seem inherently weak for failing to protect him, I can take him down without triggering a war.

It’s not like my power was trying to hide it from me, I just… I didn’t think to ask. I focus my attention back on Dad. “How did you know?”

He sighs. “Experience. The gangs… There’s nothing good about them, but they balance each other out. They have a sort of equilibrium. It’s happened here before – something drastically changes the balance of power and…”

“...everyone else pays for it,” I finish bitterly. There’s something else bugging me about the way the plans have updated, but I can’t quite put my finger on why right now.

A sound from the TV distracts me. I turn towards it to see what it is, and…

--------​

Danny Hebert – Saturday, January 15 – 6:45 PM

“Puppies!”

Alright, apparently we’re done talking about not accidentally sparking off a gang war. The TV now has Taylor’s undivided attention as she watches a news clip with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

While nothing will ever make me wish for the kinds of things that caused Taylor to need painkillers, watching her on them has been a laugh at times. The mood swings have been rough, but every so often something catches her by surprise and there’s this simple, childlike fascination.

Makes me wish we had a camcorder so I could immortalize it.

Unfortunately, while it was a slow news day, it wasn’t that slow. It’s not a fluff piece, it’s a follow-up story about a recent killing at one of the gang run dog fights. Which means in 3… 2… 1…

“How could they do that to those poor dogs?!” She turns back to me, demanding, “Why doesn’t anyone stop them?” She pauses, realization washing over her face. “I… I could stop them…”

Oh boy. “Taylor…”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Saturday, January 15 – 6:45 PM

“No, I know, I understand. We need to talk it out. But I want to find a way to make sure the dogs are safe and fed and cared for, and that the person responsible is caught.” I consider the plan for a moment, then realize it already includes Dad’s conditions… because failing to do so means he’d veto the plan.

Wait, if I can plan for getting Dad’s feedback, do I still need to actually get his feedback since I already know what it would be? Hmm. Yes, because if I don’t talk to him about it, he doesn’t know what he would have said and then he wouldn’t know that he was supposed to approve it.

I frown and go through it again, making sure I understand the gist of it and avoid putting myself through any more circular reasoning. Like most of the plans, it’s not really complicated, it’s more a matter of timing and execution. “Ok, first we’ll need to pick up a few supplies.”

Dad frowns. “Taylor, slow down. You need to…”

I shake my head and smile. “Don’t worry, Dad, I just need your help with the shopping and I need time to prep. I’ll fill you in on the way. If you’re not satisfied with it, I’ll call the whole thing off – I promise.”

He looks doubtful for a moment, then finally starts getting up. “Alright. I said I’d trust you to look after yourself, and I do. Where are we going?”

--------​

Rachel Lindt – Saturday, January 15 – 9:30 PM

It’s cold. Brutus needed to go out, Judas and Angelica needed some exercise. The park is nice, quiet. Good for running.

There’s a jogger coming towards us. A girl. Scrawny, weak. Wearing a hoodie. I give the command. “Sit.” They sit. They’re good, they understand she’s not prey. Not yet.

The jogger slows down. Cautious, not scared. Approaches carefully, not aggressive. Good. Better than most people. Lets the dogs get her scent. Looks towards me. Shit, mask was hidden by the hood. A simple one, like Lisa’s. I whistle, the dogs go on alert. I ask, “What?”

She doesn’t make eye contact. Stands sideways, doesn’t make any sudden movements. “I’m a hero. I have a plan to bust Hookwolf’s dog fighting ring tonight. I need your help.”

I frown. “Why?”

“You know best how to care for the dogs. They’ll be hurt, scared. I need someone who understands them. The city can’t handle them, they’d kill most of them.”

I bare my teeth in threat. She opens her hands at her sides, palms towards me. Holding her ground without posturing. Recognizes me as a threat, doesn’t want to fight. “How’d you find me?”

“My power told me how to find you, how to find Hookwolf. Told me the best way to save the dogs.”

I frown. That’s like Lisa too. “That all you do, know things?”

“It also tells me how to talk, how to move, how to fight.”

“Prove it.” I drop the leashes, give the command, “Hurt.” They run towards the girl. She’s already moving, dodging past them. Snags Angelica’s leash as they go by, has it tied to a park bench in seconds. Fast, smooth. Dangerous.

Brutus and Judas circle her. Brutus growls and lunges, gets her attention. Judas leaps. She rolls, kicks up at Judas, launches him back to me. Could have crushed his chest. He lands easily, not hurt. Deliberate, didn’t want him hurt. I whistle and he stays.

She flips over Brutus, straddles him. Uses her weight to bring him down. Pinned, not hurt.

Tagged them all in seconds. Could have hurt them, chose not to. Strong enough.

I whistle. Angelica and Brutus calm down. She scratches Brutus’s ear, tells him he’s a good boy. He is.

She moves like a fighter, but the muscles aren’t there for it. “You’re new.”

“Yes.” She stands up, unties Angelica, then comes towards me. Hands me the leash. Pulls something out of her pocket. “I have some treats for them, if you allow it.”

I take one, sniff it. Try a bite. Good. Fresh. “You made these?”

“Yes.”

I nod. “You’ll do. What’s the plan?”

--------​

Brad Meadows – Saturday, January 15 – 10:45 PM

The noise of the crowd is like home. The fights aren’t due to start for a few more minutes, but they’re already geared up, excited to see the show. It’s when the conversations lapse briefly, one of those rare moments of near quiet, that it happens.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Someone knocks three times at one of the warehouse bay doors. Loud, steady, echoing through the enclosed space. The rest of the conversations die off entirely, leaving only the whine of the generator and the barking of the dogs. Confusion sets in.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

That’s doing nothing for keeping this under the radar. Anyone within a few blocks is going to hear that. I gesture at one of the guards. “Well? Answer the door.”

He shrugs, walks to the door, and rolls it up just as the knocks start again.

BOOM. BOOM. “Eep!” The voice is female, young. She’s off balance, having been in mid-swing to kick the door when it opened. As the door rolls up, it becomes clear that she was “knocking” the only way she could – she’s balancing a pizza box and a large brown bag in her arms. She’s tall for a girl and rail thin. She’s wearing a vest from one of the local delivery places over a red hoodie, hood pulled up against the cold. She’s backlit by the security lights of the warehouse across the way, throwing her features into shadow.

She visibly turns her head, gawking for a minute, then turns to the guard. “Um, hi?”

He folds his arms and looks distinctly unimpressed as he grumbles, “What are you doing here, kid?”

“Oh, right!” Her head bobs in an enthusiastic nod. “I have a delivery for Mr. Wolf?”

I can’t help it, I bark out a laugh at ‘Mr. Wolf.’ Chuckles break out as the crowd takes that as the cue to relax. The guard, on the other hand, is far from amused. He turns his head and bites out, “Alright, which of you jackasses ordered…” He’s cut off as the girl snaps a kick to his groin.

Now, my guards are trained. They’re all fighters, they’ve all proven themselves in the ring, and they’re all bright enough to wear a cup when they’re on the job.

It doesn’t help.

I can hear the plastic shatter from here and he drops to his knees. She finishes him off with an elbow strike to the back of his head before the other guards can rush her.

5 seconds.

She drops the pizza box and tosses the bag next to the ring as she steps into the light. Domino mask; cape. Huh. I continue to evaluate her while she starts wading through the other guards. The crowd starts slipping out.

The second guard goes down almost as fast as the first. A sidestep, a trip, then a kick to his temple. Vicious.

15 seconds.

The next two arrive together; one unarmed, one with a shock prod. Unarmed comes in cautiously. He takes a swing, barely overextends. She’s on him in a flash, puts him in a lock, then uses him to eat a hit from the prod. Kicks out his knee, drops the dead weight. Another elbow strike on the way down puts him out. Spins past a swing from the prod, does a nerve strike on his arm, snatches the falling prod and breaks it over his head.

30 seconds.

This girl… She has potential. No fixed style, every move is simple but effective. Good speed, moderate flexibility. Movements are a little stiff, timing a bit off. Definitely still in training, still has to think about what she’s doing.

For all that she’s raw, she’s still cutting through the norms like a hot knife through butter. I tentatively peg her as a combat thinker like that little shit, Uber.

I wave the other guards off and begin clapping slowly. She turns her attention my way and seems startled to see me. Gonna have to take points off her situational awareness for that. I wasn’t supposed to be here tonight and it looks like she knew that. She expected an easy run, her bad luck that I decided to show. After I take her down and Othala puts her back together, we’ll have to find out who squealed.

“Not bad, girl. Not bad at all. But let’s see how you do in a real fight.”

She’s nervous, trembling subtly. Still, I’ll give her credit, she moves back into a ready position and watches me carefully.

I let the metal erupt through my skin as I charge. I close in seconds, but she manages a desperate dive and roll to the left. I charge again, clipping the generator cable and sending the warehouse into darkness.

“You practice blind fighting yet, girlie?” Between my changed voice and the acoustics of the warehouse, she can’t pinpoint my location. There’s more than enough light coming through the open door, though, and I can see that she’s looking in the wrong direction.

I charge a third time. She senses me at the last second, but in the darkness makes the mistake of bolting straight towards the ring.

The ring is a steel cage, twenty feet to a side, steel poles and chicken wire. Only one entrance, but she must sense the trap – instead of going in, she leaps at it, grabs a crossbar and scales the outside. She’s just barely out of reach as I slam into it behind her. The impact is enough to start destabilizing it even as she frantically pulls herself higher.

“And what do you think you’re going to do up there, girlie? You going to sprout wings and fly?” I casually rip out more of the struts. The roof of the cage starts tilting.

For the first time since our fight started, she addresses me directly. “Actually, I thought I’d try my hand at spearfishing.” With that, she throws her weight on the weakened roof and rides it down.

To my shame, I fail to understand her intention until the falling strut pierces me just below my core, temporarily pinning me to the floor of the warehouse. She casually flips off the rest of the falling structure, landing next to the bag she dropped earlier.

I laugh. “You’ve got spirit, girl, and I admire that. But I’m only stuck here for as long as it takes me to shift around this pole, and you? You’re in way over your head. Leave. Come back tomorrow, I’ll give you an audition to…” I’m cut off by the weirdest question I’ve ever heard from a sober person.

“Have you seen the electric pickle?”

She snatches up one of the struts I loosened and somehow picks out an opening in the whirling blades of my body, spearing me through right above my core. The way she’s bracketed it is the first real tip-off that she was much better than she let on, knew far more than she should. She reaches into the bag, pulls out…

Aw, shit. Jumper cable. Seeing where this is going, I frantically start rearranging myself. I need to get the poles out of my body, but they’re too close to my core and I’ve only got seconds…

She casually clamps the cable to the shredded generator line as if it had been custom cut for the task, then strolls back to me while humming something vaguely familiar.

The first post is still firmly in the concrete, but I’ve worked the second part way out. The tip is right next to my core now, practically touching…

She attaches one of the alligator clips to each post, finishing with a cheerful, “G’night, Wolfie!”

120 seconds.

My last thought as I black out is that this little bitch had it all completely planned, she just played me like a fiddle. Fuck if I still don’t want to see how she’d do in the ring. She’s got the kind of casual cruelty that’d take her…

--------​

Robin Swoyer – Saturday, January 15 – 11:00 PM

I’m here on a tip that was called in. A very strange tip, that we should come pick up our Hookwolf nightlight and matching set of collectible minions.

Disturbingly, he really is lit up. It’s an eerie, flickering blue-white light as electricity arcs through his body between the two poles speared into him. No, one goes all the way through, pinning him like a butterfly to the ground. Couldn’t happen to a nicer Nazi, but Jesus, I’m going to have nightmares about this.

I shut down the generator and detach the jumper cables. I watch cautiously for a moment, feeling a faint sense of relief as he finally groans and shifts a little. Still alive, good. Dead villains are bad news, especially one from as big a group as the Empire. I drop a containment foam grenade on him before he can wake, then survey the rest of the scene before calling it in.

“Console, this is Velocity. Hookwolf really is here. Deep fried, but alive. He’d been wired to a generator. I’ve, ah, unplugged him and foamed him for transport. I also have four normals, already zip tied when I got here. Please send pickup to my location. Over.”

“Confirmed, Velocity. ETA ten minutes. Any indication as to the other parties involved? Over.”

I look around again before noticing something unusual. “Uh, negative, Console, all the damage here looks to have been done by Hookwolf himself. But there is one thing worth noting. Over.”

“Go ahead, Velocity. Over.”

“There’s a, uh, pizza box here, open. The pizza has a winking smiley face made of pepperoni set in it. The order slip reads, ‘One piping hot serving of justice with extra pepperoni.’ The delivery address is listed as, ‘Mr. H. Wolf, ℅ Secret Nazi Warehouse Arena.’ Over.”

“...seriously? Uh, over.”

“Seriously. Over.”

“We get the weirdest shit on Saturday nights. Over.”

I nod to myself. We really, really do. “Confirmed, Console. Over.”

“Alright, internal code name Pizza Party assigned. Bag it for analysis. Over.”

“Roger. Velocity out.”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Saturday, January 15 – 11:40 PM

Rachel was surprised that I genuinely wanted her there for the dogs, not as muscle. Still, she seems happy to have played a part, and I think she got a kick out of us stealing Hookwolf’s van. It was a relatively short drive to get the rescued dogs back to the warehouse she’s using, and she already started sorting their cages in some way that makes sense to her.

She insists on giving me a ride back to the park where we first met, but this ride isn’t in the van.

Riding on the transformed Angelica is an amazing experience. It’s not a smooth ride, by any means, but it’s completely unlike anything I’ve done before. And after the fight, the cool night air feels good.

We finally arrive at the park and dismount. Rachel looks at me, evaluating me yet again. I feel my posture shift as I once again assume the “not a threat” stance. Finally, she nods and simply states, “You did good.”

It’s weird knowing that I’d be blushing if my power wasn’t regulating all my everything right now. “Thank you.”

Rachel just nods again and tries to hand me a wad of money. “This is your half of the take.”

I shake my head, “No, keep it. Use it for the dogs.” I know what’s coming, but I still go through the motions. It’s important.

She frowns. “Then help.” I cock my head, looking puzzled, and she elaborates. “You made those treats. They were good. You can make food for them.”

It’s half question and half statement, so I just confirm, “Yes. Alright, I’ll make food for the dogs, but I’m doing it at cost.”

She eyes me warily, still frowning. “Time is money. That’s a cost.”

I smile softly, lips closed, no teeth showing. “Alright.” I name a figure, she peels off the bills. The plan told me that she wouldn’t let this go, that while she didn’t want to give me the money, she also didn’t want to ‘owe’ me. This was the best compromise I’d be able to work out.

We make arrangements to drop off the dog food, then I nod to her and walk away.

--------​

Danny Hebert – Saturday, January 15 – 11:55 PM

I’ve spent the last two and a half hours listening to the local news radio, waiting for I don’t know what. Explosions. Fires. Anything. Taylor said there wouldn’t be any news until morning, but this… This is the only way I’ll know if anything has gone wrong.

I check the clock again. Just as it ticks over to 56, I hear the back door open. Right on time.

Taylor strolls into the living room and casually greets me with, “Hey, Dad. Still awake? I told you not to wait up.”

I don’t remember standing or gripping her shoulders, but she just looks up at me with a tolerant smile. I examine her carefully, but she seems completely unhurt. A little windswept, maybe a little tired, but right now she just looks like an average girl walking in after a Saturday night out with friends.

As if she hadn’t spent the evening helping one villain steal the abused dogs of another. As if she hadn’t told me in detail about how she’d be “non-fatally” electrocuting the latter, how he wouldn’t even remember the fight by the time the Protectorate showed up. How she’d be beating down his toughs so quickly that they’d never have a chance to touch her.

I don’t say anything, I can’t. I just pull her into a hug.

I hear her murmur into my chest, “I love you too, Dad.”

--------​

Lisa Wilbourn – Sunday, January 16 – 10:30 AM

“Lisa. Glad you could join us. Did you hear about Hookwolf?”

My, Brian is all business this morning. Why’s he all intense about Hookwolf…? Rachel shifts. She knows something about it. Was there when it happened.

I frown. “No, but let me guess. Rachel…” Picked a fight? Dog fight on the news last night. “...went out and busted up one of his dog fights.”

Alec scoffs, “Oh, so close but so far.”

“Ok, fine. What’s going on?” I ask while rolling my eyes.

“Rachel teamed up with a new hero,” he explains gloatingly. Likes getting one over on me. Likes knowing something I didn’t know. Finds self-worth in demeaning others. Nothing new there. “While Rachel was playing dog whisperer to the poor, abused puppies, Hookwolf got pwned by the noob.”

I glance at Brian, and he confirms, “It’s true. The PRT has him locked up, there was already a press release this morning. New hero wasn’t named, but Rachel wasn’t implicated. None of the usual ‘fighting among villains’ garbage.”

“Soooo, a new hero, one willing to work with villains? Anything you can tell us, Rachel?” Coil will want a profile sooner or later, and you never know who might be useful.

She considers the question carefully. “She’s nice. Well behaved. But she still needs training, she’s too new.”

Alec asks laughingly, “Are you talking about the new hero or one of your dogs?”

She just shrugs.

I frown again. Understood her perfectly. Thinks she was like an overeager puppy. Would work with her again. Arranged ongoing contact. Rachel’s idea. Hero will continue helping with dogs. Shit, one meeting with this girl and Rachel’s loyalties are divided. Fucking wonderful.

Spoiler: Author’s Note

The RWBY Volume 1 soundtrack got me through writing the fight scene. As is probably blatantly obvious by now, I tend to favor talking/interacting/thinking scenes over direct action sequences. Even here, the entire thing is framed in Hookwolf's perspective as he evaluates the new fighter. Less about what she's doing, more about how she does it.

The electric pickle:


The pizza order slip was inspired by a similar comment made by MadGreenSon a few days ago.

It really is standard policy in most areas to euthanize dogs recovered from dog fights; the general thinking is that they’re too unstable to rehabilitate.

 

Taylor Hebert – Sunday, January 16 – 6:20 AM

It’s while I’m making our post-workout breakfast that it finally clicks.

Coil.

That’s what changed when I updated the Kaiser-centric plans to avoid gang wars – every variation now involves taking Coil out as one of the early targets. There’s an assortment of other villains that can be taken down, but Coil is always included. The question is why. I pull up the Pratfall plan and take a closer look.

Oh, that snakey bastard. Seriously, the hell is wrong with that man? He wants a gang war? Right, right, Bond villain bullshit, using his enemies against each other. Worse, his plans are like an avalanche – the more time they have to build up, the harder it is to stop them.

I’m still trying to sort out the mess when Dad comes in. The personal spinach and egg soufflés are still done at the perfect moment, of course.

--------​

Danny Hebert – Sunday, January 16 – 6:30 AM

I don’t really feel much better this morning, but Taylor says it’ll be a few weeks before we move into the “maybe this isn’t so bad after all” level of working out. The delicious smell of breakfast is drifting out of the kitchen and into the rest of the house.

I… I’m not happy that my daughter went out to beat up Nazis last night, but her power comes with so many benefits. From what she’s said, it’s helped her regain her equilibrium, it’s helped us grow closer again… I’m really starting to think we might be able to make this work, that she may really be able to make a go of things as an independent.

“So, Dad, hypothetically speaking… It’s still wrong to murder criminal masterminds, right? Even if they’re skeevy child predators that want the city to burn just so they can take credit for putting out the fire?”

I drop my head on the table.

“Dad…? I’ll, uh… I’ll just leave your plate next to you, ok?”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Sunday, January 16 – 6:30 AM

“This isn’t a conversation I expected to have, much less at six in the morning, immediately after my beloved daughter worked me to exhaustion. But yes, killing criminal masterminds is still wrong.”

“Right, sorry, I wasn’t really serious, it’s just, my power kind of defaults to homicidal when dealing with threats.”

He finally raises his head to look at me. “Threats.”

We stare at each other for a moment. I kind of expected him to be more concerned with the “homicidal” part of that sentence. “Um, yeah. I figured out that Coil is intent on starting a gang war this spring, and my power is happily giving me a hundred and one ways to cook a snake.”

“But he’s not coming after you directly?” He seems strangely intent.

I mentally flip through the tentative Plan I’m forming. “No… Well, not unless I use myself as bait. I can pretty much no-sell him entirely, keep him from knowing anything about me.” I pick out a detail I hadn’t noticed before and add, “Well, he sort of broadly knows I exist, or will later today anyway, because of the Hookwolf thing. But even the Thinker he’s holding at gunpoint can only put together a limited profile for now. He’s vaguely cautious, but doesn’t take interest unless I either move directly against him or do something blatantly obvious with my power.”

“Ok, that’s… That’s good.” He slides his plate over and begins picking at the fruit salad. “Let me think about this for a few minutes, alright? Eat breakfast, recover a bit? Then we can figure out what to do about Coil.”

--------​

Danny Hebert – Sunday, January 16 – 7:00 AM

I was hoping that I’d have some brilliant insight while eating. Well, I guess we can try the organic approach… “Alright, so Coil wants a gang war.”

“Yep. I found it this morning, trying to figure out why he was popping up as a…” She pauses for a moment, frowning. “I guess you could call him a prerequisite for the updated pie plans.”

Ok, now I know I have to be missing something. “If you already have a plan to catch him, what’s the problem?”

“It just delays him past the end of the Kaiser plan, it doesn’t actually stop him. He escapes custody, lays low for a while, then starts building up towards it again.” She frowns, visibly annoyed. “Actually, that’s pretty much Coil in a nutshell. Try, try again.” She sighs and leans back in her chair. “The best I’ve gotten so far is either delaying things until some arbitrary point or getting him to relocate, to leave the Bay.”

I nod. “And neither actually fixes anything.”

“Exactly. But if I don’t interfere early, it gets harder to interfere later. For example, I can keep his patsies from robbing Lung later this month…”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to ask: Why would someone ever think robbing Lung was a good idea?”

She just shrugs it off. “They want to establish themselves as daring escape artists or something. I didn’t look too closely. Anyway, if I stop them now, he just points them at another target later. If I catch them, he puts together another team. If I just let them do it, it gets worse.”

“Worse, how?”

She starts ticking off fingers. “In March, the E88 and Merchants will both hit minor ABB targets, street level stuff. It’s still relatively easy to head off there, I just keep striking at the unpowered members until they stop trying to expand. If I don’t head it off, all three gangs go recruiting for more capes.

“In April,” she continues, “Lung will confront the team that robbed him. Regardless of what happens, the ABB basically goes on a rampage against everyone else. Best case scenario by then is for me to hit the capes hard every time they stick their heads up. If I do it enough times, they get the message, things cool back down.”

I frown. “Which capes?”

She looks away and mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “All of them.”

I hold my left index finger up. “Wait. Wait, are you saying… Your power is telling you how to beat every villain in the city?”

She blushes and looks a bit awkward. “Well, not, you know, capturing them all, but… Yes?” Seeing my expression, she clarifies, “Not all of them at once or anything. And I pretty much have to do it full time to convince them to back off.”

I just look at her levelly. “Food planning.”

Her attempt at looking innocent is ruined by the deepening blush. “Er… Cry havoc, and let slip the muffins of war?”

I take a deep breath, hold it for a three count, then release it. “Right. Ok. I don’t think I can take too much more this morning. Let’s just… Let’s just focus on Coil for now. It sounds like you’re right, the best way to go is to take action now, stop him before any of that gets started.”

Nodding with enthusiasm, she responds, “Exactly.” Less enthusiastically, she continues, “And the easiest way to stop him in the next few weeks is to kill him. He’s one of those layers-within-layers schemers, derailing one of his plans just lets him push another forward.”

I think it over carefully, looking for other angles. “Alright, so he’s the chessmaster who can see everything a few moves ahead of his opponents. What happens if you kick the board out from under him? Derail all of his plans at once. I don’t know, publicize them, trick him into giving a villainous monologue or something.”

She considers that for a moment, then gives me Annette’s evil smirk #4, the one that promises great suffering at the next faculty meeting. “Yeah. Yeah, ok, I think I’ve got something I can work with. Let me tell you about Operation Snake Charmer…”

...I’m never going to get used to this, am I.

--------​

Emily Piggot – Monday, January 17 – 5:30 AM

Today may be a federal holiday, but I don’t have the luxury of taking time to relax. Unfortunately, my plans for the day are derailed before I can make it out the front door.

My immediate reaction to seeing an unexpected box on my doorstep at this time of morning is a jolt of adrenaline. However, I’m easily able to see through the transparent lid – it contains some kind of muffins or cupcakes. While it’s still entirely possible for them to be hiding an explosive, it’s also far less likely.

There’s a note taped to the box, fluttering in the breeze.

I know what I should do. I should call the office and have them send a team equipped for demolitions and hazardous materials. What I actually do is grab a shoe from the closet, push it into place with a broom handle, and use it to pin the note down so that I can read it. My next step will depend on its contents.

My dearest Emily,

I have long admired both your drive and tenacity. The determination that saw you through the killing fields of Ellisburg in spite of your injuries has inspired me greatly over the years.

We are much alike, you and I; two sides of the same coin, two answers to the same question. We impose order on those who seek only chaos, reason on those who cater to the every whim of impulse.

I have been working to bring stability to this city for some years now. Our city, truly, for I have watched you face the same struggle. Just as you have worked in the light to enforce law and order, I have worked in the dark to enforce discipline and reason.

The time has finally come, both for me to confess my feelings to you and, as a token of good faith, to make you aware of my plans.

In the coming weeks, certain parahumans in my employ shall take action to provoke Lung. In the following weeks, he will seek a confrontation. Whether they survive is irrelevant, as the situation will have already destabilized. The Empire will push when they perceive Lung as weak, and Lung will push back. The Merchants, bottom feeders that they are, will nip and claw for the scraps. I have highly placed moles in all factions – they shall act as agents provocateurs, driving the conflict on. At the conclusion, I expect only the Empire to remain.

And, thus! My masterstroke. I have also been gathering the civilian identities of all parahumans associated with the Empire Eighty-Eight. When they are the only players on the board, I shall release that information, leaving them nowhere to shelter.

Even should you choose not to join me, the final victory over the Empire shall be yours; the credit, yours to claim. You will be known as the Director who brought down the last of the gangs of Brockton Bay. I can only hope, then, that you will feel some fondness towards me and the role I have played in your elevation.

At the very least, let this serve as a warning. Be prepared, Emily, and make sure your forces are in position to minimize civilian casualties. It is an unfortunate truth, one of which we are both intimately aware: The tree of liberty is most often refreshed not with the blood of patriots and tyrants, but with that of the innocent.

It is my greatest hope, however, that you would be willing to join me fully in this endeavor. While I already have access to PRT communications and records, being able to coordinate our efforts will surely see us achieve total victory with greater swiftness.

I hope to have you at my side as an equal, a partner in all things. I would see us rule this city together, to have you as my Lady.

One of my agents will be available to take your reply, should you wish to send one. You will know him when the time comes.

I have included with this note a small token of my esteem. While I am aware that your condition requires you to abide by certain dietary restrictions, I have been assured that the carrot cake recipe used to produce these muffins is both safe and, as much as such a thing can be said, reasonably nutritious. Enjoy them yourself or share them with your minions subordinates, as you will.

Ever yours,
Coil​

...I think I’m going to be sick.

I snap a quick picture with my phone and call for a team. It’s too early to deal with this shit.

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 5:40 AM

“Calvert, your team is up. Someone left a suspicious package at the Director’s door.”

I sigh. How lovely, I get to spend the morning with Piggot. Fortunately, I’m being significantly more productive in my other timeline.

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline B – Monday, January 17 – 5:40 AM

I evaluate the field carefully. One wrong move and all is for naught. I’ve taken logic as far as it will go; I’m left with making an educated guess. Normally I’d use my other timeline for this, but I’m not currently in a position where I can sacrifice that cleanly. Too many questions about missed time, excessive absences.

I look again, confirm the choice in my mind, and click.

The field erupts in explosions.

Every damn time. I flag all the obvious mines, I use logic to determine which squares to avoid, but it always comes down to a random choice between two squares, and I somehow manage to pick the wrong one. Every. Damn. Time.

I sigh and pick up the phone. “Mr. Pitter? Have my breakfast prepared.”

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 6:15 AM

We arrive to find the Director standing in front of her open garage door.

“Director Piggot.”

She doesn’t quite sneer at me. “Calvert. The box is on the front step, this way.”

Lovely to see you, too, Emily. “Right, Mulligan, you’re with me. Hanlon, Murphy, get the scanners.” We follow the Director along the sidewalk to her front door, where there’s…

“Uh… It appears to be a box of muffins, ma’am.” Mulligan, you fool…

She smiles sweetly at him. “Why, thank you for that astounding insight, Mulligan.” She continues angrily, “Even if it is just a box of muffins, it needs to be taken in.”

Frowning, I catch a glimpse of the note. The handwriting on it seems familiar…

“Ma’am?”

“The note, Mulligan, is signed by someone claiming to be one of our known parahuman criminals. If it’s to be believed, I’ve somehow acquired the amorous attentions of Coil.”

...what.

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline B – Monday, January 17 – 6:16 AM

I had just taken a bite of grapefruit when that bit of news was delivered. I appear to be choking now. I hate asphyxiating. It’s such a nuisance, and the headache always seems to carry over in the other timeline if I allow myself to succumb.

I sigh – or I would if I were able to breathe at the moment – and briefly debate. Prolong the current timeline by a few agonizing-yet-futile minutes? Drop it and start a new one to contain the situation at Piggot’s? Decisions, decisions.

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 6:16 AM

Son of a bitch, that’s my handwriting. I drop the other timeline and immediately split again. Here I make a surprised face and a vaguely amused sound…

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline C – Monday, January 17 – 6:16 AM

...while here I immediately snatch up the note and…

Oh, good lord…

“Calvert, what the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 6:17 AM

“‘...as my Lady,’” I murmur to myself incredulously.

Piggot turns to me, eyes me warily. “It occurs to me, Calvert, that not many people know the details of my injuries. Fewer still how I received them.”

Shit. Mulligan has the note, there’s no way I could’ve read it from here.

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline C – Monday, January 17 – 6:17 AM

“Oh, shut up, you sanctimonious cow.” With that, I draw my sidearm and shoot her.

--------​

Spoiler: QQ update

Ah yes, the traditional Coil takedown. What OP Taylor fic is complete without one? Jokes aside, in a scenario where a heroic Taylor is aware of both his plans and some of the nasty crap he pulls, it's almost impossible for her to tolerate his presence. The thing I'm most unhappy about in both this chapter and the next is that several of the alternate timelines rely on chance rather than specific actions.

 

Thomas Calvert – Timeline C – Monday, January 17 – 6:17 AM

I look down in confusion at Piggot. She glares up at me from where she sits with her back against her front door. Faint wisps of smoke rise from the pistol she grips with both hands.

I touch the hole in my jacket, feel moisture. Bring my fingers back to my face. Red.

“Special issue. Designed to work against low level Brutes. Goes through the teams’ armor like a brick through a wet tissue, I’m afraid.”

She… shot me? But… I shot her first…

“I wear a vest under my suit coat and you weren’t issued anti-Brute munitions.”

Oh. I think I’ll sit down now.

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 6:17 AM

I frown, plastering a look of confusion on my face. “Ma’am?”

“Cut the innocent act, Calvert,” she snaps. “How long?”

“I’m not sure…”

“How long since he suborned you?”

I reflexively wince as she kills me in the other timeline. I split the timeline again, but the damage is done.

She nods to herself as if I’ve just confirmed her suspicions. “He’s some kind of Thinker, isn’t he. Obviously not a precog, though, or he’d have seen this coming…”

All I can think is ‘You’re not wrong…’

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline D – Monday, January 17 – 6:17 AM

I draw my sidearm and… I’m bleeding? I look down in confusion, then back at Piggot. She… shot me? Again?!

“You told me all about shooting your first commanding officer when he was in your way, Calvert. Did you really think I’d stand still and let you shoot me as well?”

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 6:18 AM

I flinch again and resplit. Son of a bitch, that woman is fast when she’s already on her guard. I glance at her with a certain wary respect and keep my hand conspicuously away from my holster.

“You must be shit at poker, Calvert. You really can’t stop yourself from reacting.”

I reach up to massage my forehead. I know I’m getting increasingly agitated. I have no safe fallback, and apparently can’t even vent properly. “Look, Director, it’s not what you think. I’m not working for Coil.”

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline E – Monday, January 17 – 6:18 AM

I reach up to massage my forehead. “Look, Director, it’s not what you think…” As I swing my arm back down, I pluck a fragmentation grenade from my tactical vest. It’ll probably kill me as well at this range, but I want to see this bitch die once. I pop the safety, depress the spoon, pull the pin, and give it a gentle toss. I settle back and calmly await the end of this timeline.

Mulligan panics, freezes. I’d enjoy the sight if it weren’t for Piggot’s reaction. She goes into motion as soon as I pull the grenade free. Using one arm to grab Mulligan by his vest, she uses the other to reach behind her and open her front door.

The grenade lands on the box of muffins. The lid is apparently some kind of flexible plastic; it bounces, sending it straight towards Piggot’s open door. That couldn’t have worked better if I’d planned it that way.

She’s already stepping through, dragging Mulligan with her. The door slams an instant before the grenade hits it. The grenade arcs back the way it came.

No.

I hear the sound of heavy bolts slamming into place, more akin to a bank vault being sealed than a front door. Reinforced, obviously. Regardless, my attention is now focused on the grenade as it once again bounces off the muffin box.

No.

I watch in horrified fascination as it lands just ahead of me and rolls the last few inches to bump into my boot.

Why…?

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 6:18 AM

I give an involuntary shudder as I once again split the timelines. That was particularly unpleasant, but it’s increasingly obvious that I have woefully underestimated both Piggot’s resourcefulness and, surprising though it is, her physical capabilities.

Speaking of, she is now frowning at me as if I were something unmentionable she had scraped off the bottom of her shoe. “No? I suppose it must have been some other person in Brockton Bay who…” she pauses, glances towards Mulligan, then resumes, “gave him the details of how I sustained my injuries?”

I make a show of rolling my eyes, even as I move my hands behind my back to hide their shaking. “Years ago, Director. It doesn’t have to have been anyone here, now, when he’s apparently been aware of it for years. The helicopter crew, the medics… I am not the only person who saw you drag yourself out.”

“You’re awfully familiar with the contents of that note for someone who hasn’t read it,” she bites off furiously.

I pause, reviewing what I’ve done in which timelines. Damn it, Mulligan still has the note, I just fucked up the same way again.

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline F – Monday, January 17 – 6:19 AM

“Mulligan! The director is being completely irrational, she’s likely under the influence of whichever parahuman left those muffins. Quickly, foam her for her own safety so we can get her to M/S quarantine!” If I can’t kill her, I can at least see her humiliated.

Mulligan readies his sprayer, but hesitates. “Uh… Sir? Ma’am? I…”

Piggot frowns, then nods as if agreeing. “You know what? That sounds like an excellent idea. Do it, Mulligan. But best you foam Calvert as well. He’s been behaving oddly ever since he saw the package.”

“Wait, wha…” is as far as I get before Mulligan unloads his sprayer directly in my face. To my pleasant surprise, catching a mouthful of foam doesn’t taste like much of anything. Given the way this day has gone, I was expecting some horrible chemical taste.

“Er… Sorry about this sir, ma’am.”

“Carry on, Mulligan.” At least she sounds resigned, even if I can’t see it happening.

‘Containment foam is porous. Just breathe normally,’ I tell myself as it expands across my tongue and towards the back of my throat. As the hardening foam triggers my gag reflex, I realize I have a completely different problem.

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 6:20 AM

I manage to keep myself from gagging as I drop the timeline and resplit. I’ve already had one choking incident this morning, I don’t need to experience death via aspirated vomitus.

My position as Thomas Calvert, PRT agent, is obviously in jeopardy and I have no idea who could have set this up. It’s far too elegant for Tattletale; she favors shock and awe when employing her power. Accord might be possible, but this feels far too… organic, for lack of a better term, to be one of his plans. Beyond that, we’re on quite good terms, he wouldn’t place me in this kind of situation without warning, without reason. I doubt Cauldron…

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline G – Monday, January 17 – 6:20 AM

This is a complete clusterfuck, and I’ve wasted far too much precious time making the mistake of trying to kill someone Nilbog couldn’t. I turn and run.

I hear a familiar snap behind me. I can’t resist the urge to taunt, “Really, Emily? Going to run me down and beat me with your baton?”

“Not exactly.”

I’ve barely made the street when the thrown baton strikes my legs and trips me. I manage to lurch out of the way of the bus, but stumble directly into the path of the orange and white delivery truck. My last sight of both vehicles, from an unspeakably awkward angle, is very informative.

Spoiler

Spoiler

--------​

Thomas Calvert – Timeline A – Monday, January 17 – 6:20 AM

Oh. I see.

I turn to watch both bus and truck pass by. I’m not sure why, but the message itself couldn’t be clearer if they had called. Everything I’ve worked for is to be sacrificed here, now. I think it over for a moment longer, then throw my head back and laugh. Or possibly cry. I’m not sure I can distinguish the two any more.

--------​

Emily Piggot – Monday, January 17 – 6:21 AM

I’m watching Calvert carefully, ready to react in an instant. He’s a dangerous man, unpredictable, and he’s getting twitchier by the minute. He turns his head away, apparently to watch traffic. I almost draw down on him when he starts laughing. Barely able to contain himself, he exclaims, “Thomas’s muffins!” Then pointing at the box, giggling madly, he repeats it. “Thomas’s muffins!” He sits on my front step, grabs the box, and begins rocking himself back and forth.

My blood runs cold and I hit the panic button in my pocket, the one to indicate I’m under immediate parahuman threat. I take a deep breath, steel my nerves, and prepare for a confrontation with a dangerously unstable cape; one that I may have unknowingly spurned. “No. No, I suppose you don’t work, for Coil, do you, Thomas.” Looks like I’m violating procedure again this morning; first rule of dealing with Thinkers is not to talk to them.

He lets out a sort of keening wail, half laughing, half sobbing into the box. His box.

I gesture for Mulligan to back away carefully. He does so, looking hopelessly confused.

Murphy and Hanlon finally come back around from the van with the portable x-ray and the… Radiation detector? Aw, Christ, I’m getting old. Thought never even crossed my mind. Maybe it’s time to reconsider that disability discharge I’ve been fighting. There aren’t a lot of physical requirements for the director, but days like this…

I sigh as I watch the only other survivor of Ellisburg sob into a box of muffins. “What happened to you, Thomas? I still remember what you said that day.” All of it. All too well. I sigh again. “I suppose you finally got what you wanted.”

I can’t imagine myself ever returning his feelings, but seeing this miserable wretch makes me add something to the conclusion I reached ten years ago.

Monsters, freaks, lunatics, and bullies… But all of them so very broken.

When it becomes obvious that Calvert… Coil… Thomas… When it becomes obvious that the man has nothing to say, I signal Mulligan to foam him.

Jesus, but this promises to be an unholy mess.

--------​

Lisa Wilbourn – Monday, January 17 – 6:30 AM

My phone chirps merrily. I’m tempted to roll over and ignore it, but it’s the ringtone I use for Coil’s messages. I grab it off the nightstand and squint blearily at it.

Your boss had a really shitty morning and now you’re unemployed. Check your email.​

Heh. I could only wish. Cloned Coil's burner. Knew my burner number. Thinker. I pop open the mail app; one new message, no text, just two attachments – a picture and a sound file. I pop the picture first.

Hmm. Looks like someone took a picture of a letter and a shoe? Let’s see…

My dearest Emily…​

Holy shit, it’s the love letter I never knew I wanted to read. On the one hand, the schadenfreude is going to keep me giggling for hours. On the other, the fucker really was planning to sacrifice us to Lung as the opening move to some convoluted plan. Worse, I think it might have worked.

Listening to the recording of his breakdown makes me feel better again. Alright, fine, so the PRT is going to see Thomas Calvert quietly tried for treason and then make sure nobody ever finds out anything. Why tell me? What is it you want, oh mysterious benefactor? Right on cue, my phone chirps again. I flip back to texts.

A bit of help finishing Coil cleanup. Oh, and you, legit.​

Aw, I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for that kind of relationship…

​

...wait a minute, someone is turning my “I’m psychic!” schtick back on me.

Don’t be silly, you’re not psychic, just really clever.​

I nod, catch myself, and look around for…

Nope, no cameras.​

Ok, seriously, stop that. It’s creepy as fuck.

Spoiler

Oh, you bitch… Half a second later, I have to stop myself from facepalming. Damn it, how many layers deep does that joke go? Wait, this is the new hero from the other night…

*knock* *knock*​

I stare at my phone, then glance apprehensively at my front door. I wait for the actual knock, but nothing happens.

Snakey bastard truce? I brought breakfast!​

...and if I decline?

Then I leave it at your door and leave you in peace. No catches.​

Fine, but you’re explaining the psychic bullshit. I open my apartment door.

“Goal oriented, food related precog,” she says as she hands me a plastic storage container and a to-go coffee cup. Homemade cinnamon rolls. My favorite mochachino from my favorite coffee shop.

I frown, flip it over quickly in my head. “So you know exactly what to do and when to do it as long as food is involved. Also, that’s what I would’ve called it, but not what you call it.” I carefully lift the lid off the box. Oh, that smells good.

“Yep.” She just watches me expectantly. Wait, was she agreeing with the statement or the thought? She smiles serenely, but I can’t read anything off it. It’s like her…

Oh, come on, that’s such bullshit. “Really? Perfect motor control, too?”

She puts on a faux-innocent expression and tells me, “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

I cautiously tear off a bit and pop it in my mouth. The dark side might have cookies, but the light side apparently gets the most kick-ass cinnamon rolls I’ve ever tasted. Knew exactly how long it would take me to try a bite. Prepared with inhuman precision for my first taste at this specific moment. Right, right, bullshit girl is made of pure bullshit, I got it already. “We haven’t met.”

“Nope. Well… No, not exactly. We could have, though, in a variety of different ways.” Been aware of me since she started using her power. Planned multiple ways to meet me. Didn't do this to meet me. Considers this a pleasant side effect of taking out Coil. Considers me a friendly acquaintance. Huh. Convenient.

“Yep, but a bit weird at times.”

I nod in agreement, then realize I hadn’t said anything. “Damn it, fine, I get the point. Cut that out.”

She smiles cheerfully. “Nice to meet you, Lisa. I’m Taylor.”

Spoiler: Author’s notes

The unofficial title for this part was “They Keep Killing Tommy.” Decided I wanted to see Director Piggot being the same kind of badass normal she was in her interlude.

Thanks to Yog for pointing out that Piggot failed to consider radiological hazards. I decided to actually incorporate that here as part of her “What the fuck is wrong with my Monday?”

The ultimate unclever vulpine grin originates from the avatar of mus_musculus - I commented on it the first time I saw it, but liked it enough to bring it over here in a different context.

I wanted to include some of the Lisa-trolling that I managed in the original. Lisa won't be playing a major part here, nor will the Coil cleanup. That said, I imagine Lisa and Taylor spending the morning firing the mercenaries and posting florid love poems to PHO with Coil's accounts. (Of course he has sockpuppets.)

This chapter would have been posted sooner, but I inadvertently followed the path to catching my wife's cold and spent the weekend feeling miserable.

 

Spoiler: Rehosting notes

This omake was inspired by MadGreenSon on SB.

♦ Private Messages from DoctorMod:

DoctorMod: To date, your forum avatar has caused upwards of 80 Protectorate and Wards members to enter a fugue state and be placed in M/S quarantine; the total number of affected parahumans is likely more than three times that number. We understand that we cannot make bans stick and that nothing we do can actually change your profile settings. I'm asking you for a favor on behalf of my organization, one that we will gladly repay in any way you wish: Please remove whatever those spiraling whale things are and replace them with something that does not somehow magically induce trauma in others.
DoctorMod *New Message*: Thank you. You will find the autographed Alexandria lunchbox on your kitchen table when you return home, along with the framed certificate of authenticity.
​

♦ Private Messages from Dragon (Verified Awesome):

Dragon (Verified Awesome): I'm not sure exactly what you said to Saint, but thank you. He returned all my stolen suits, a number of programs he apparently looted from my deceased father's home, and delivered the most incredibly sincere apology I've ever heard. I'm still not clear on what he meant by saying that I'm "needed at (my) full, unhindered capacity to face this new threat," but I find the implications concerning. Do you possibly have any insight on what he was referring to?
Dragon (Verified Awesome) *New Message*: While I appreciate the sentiment, it's getting a bit awkward to have the words (Verified Awesome) appear next to my name everywhere on the Internet. I can't even begin to figure out how you made it understand the context well enough across languages to distinguish between my name and any other instance of the word "dragon" used as a proper noun. On a related note, Lung (Dragon Wannabe) is apparently quite upset with his new designation. Any chance I could get you to consider stopping both?
​

♦ Private Messages from WingedOne:

WingedOne: I just want you to know, you're my personal hero. I thought I knew trolling, but I know now that I am in the presence of a true master. Bravo! If we're ever in the same city, we have got to do lunch.​

 

Taylor Hebert – Tuesday, January 18 – 7:10 AM

I spent Saturday night beating up Nazis. I spent Sunday setting up circumstances to make an evil mastermind have a complete breakdown. I spent Monday helping a soon to be ex-villain loot the mastermind’s assets to the bedrock. Well, we were also trolling the hell out of PHO using his accounts, but Lisa argued that every aspect of his reputation counted as an asset.

Now, as the sun barely peeks over the horizon, I prepare myself for my greatest challenge yet.

Public education.

Arcadia shines. The campus is so utterly unlike Winslow that it’s disturbing. Winslow always had that feeling of urban decay to it, like it was a few weeks away from collapsing into itself. The graffiti, the vandalism, even the shoddy landscaping, all spoke of a school that barely limped along.

Arcadia, on the other hand, is just… Clean. No graffiti, no visible damage. Even in winter, with the trees bare and the lawn as much brown as green, it’s clear that the groundskeeper is earning his paycheck. It’s… Objectively, it’s everything a well funded high school should be. It’s so far outside my experience, though, that it seems strange. Alien.

I shift uncomfortably in my new coat. It’s simple enough, a cream colored wool jacket, but I’d still rather have one of my hoodies. Unfortunately, Lisa had very correctly pointed out that inconspicuous at Arcadia would be a very different look from inconspicuous at Winslow. Regardless, I’m nearly positive yesterday’s extended shopping trip through the mall (as paid for by Coil) was partially in revenge for me turning her little mind reading game back on her.

It was nice, though. I mean, yeah, she was every bit as snarky as I’d expected, but we bonded over cinnamon rolls and hating Coil. By mutual agreement, we… well, we didn’t not use our powers, but we kept it to ourselves. Mostly.

I could have done without her introducing me to the TMI game while having lunch at the food court. I mean, yeah, I won, but neither one of us is ever going to look at that Orange Julius shop the same way again. Even though they had long since replaced the affected equipment, we definitely won’t ever be ordering anything there.

I shudder, then wince as my shoulder gives a little spike of pain. It’s good to be clear headed, but having the Vicodin as a buffer made it easier to ignore my injuries. Still, I don’t regret declining the doctor’s offer of a refill. At least I only have to deal with the brace for another week, even if I haven’t been all that careful to wear it all the time. And anyway…

I’m delaying. I frown at the building again. It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s not the same school, none of them are here, I just need to go in, pick up my schedule…

“Are you alright?”

I clamp down on the urge to shriek in surprise.

“It’s just, you’ve been standing there staring at the school for the last few minutes like you were expecting it to jump up and attack you, and that’s not a thing schools normally do. Well, there was that one time in Spokane, but that was…”

I let her words wash over me for a moment. A few inches shorter than me, blue eyes, black hair in a simple pageboy cut. Thin, but not as sticklike as I am. Her clothes aren’t especially noteworthy, but the overall impression is kind of nerdy. She actually reminds me a bit of Greg Veder, with the complete lack of brain to mouth filter, only less creepy. No, that’s not fair. After what he did, I should try to think a bit more kindly of him.

“...and then there was the time that Digger caused the tennis court to flip over in…”

I have some protein bars in my bag in case of emergency, but I don’t think I’ll need one for this. I wait for her to stop to take a breath and interject, “I’m more worried about the students than the school itself. I’m a new transfer from Winslow, and my time there was… bad.”

She pauses for a moment, as if my not fearing the school itself required careful analysis. “I suppose attacks by other students are more common, but there hasn’t been anything like that at Arcadia in a long time. But I guess that happens more often at Winslow, and I could see how that kind of conditioned reflex could develop. I mean, I heard there was a bad one a couple of weeks ago and the librarian was kidnapped at the same time and…” She trails off, either reading something from my expression or putting it together on her own. She asks hesitantly, “That was you?”

I nod solemnly. “That was me.”

“That’s horrible!”

“It was,” I confirm as I nod again. “But that’s over now, you know? Fresh start, new beginning, all that.”

“Good for you!” she exclaims happily.

We stare awkwardly at each other for a moment. Finally, I smile and attempt to extricate myself with, “Well, I need to pick up my class schedule, so…”

“Right, of course, and your books, but they might pull those for you, and they’ll have to give you your locker assignment and the map, and… Oh! And welcome to Arcadia!”

“Thanks!” With that, I make my way towards the doors. Really, this can’t be that bad, I mean…

“Jordan!”

I stop, hand on the door, and look back at her. “Pardon?”

“I’m Jordan! Hello!”

“Hi, I’m Taylor.” I give her a wave and head through the door.

--------​

Missy Biron – Tuesday, January 18 – 7:30 AM

Going back to school after a long weekend is so annoying. I always feel like I’m wasting my time here. What makes it worse is that for the first time, I’m starting to understand all those “stupid” Youth Guard regulations. Well, at least what they’re trying to do.

Don’t be Sophia.

I didn’t really like her – she went out of her way to be unlikeable – but I respected her. She’d been a vigilante for years, had been fighting in the streets since I first joined the Wards. Sure, maybe she went a little too far, but she was still obviously trying to do the right thing. Why else join the Wards, right?

Only, not so much. As annoying as she was, what we saw was apparently her on her best behavior. From what a few of the agents have let slip, her normal behavior really sucked.

So now we’re all pretending that Shadow Stalker isn’t a sadistic bitch while waiting for her to be transferred out. I haven’t actually seen her, she’s been confined to PHQ since the police started questioning her. Still, Austin, working under Eidolon? It’s like they’re thanking her for it.

Meanwhile I'm stuck going to school, going through the motions. Pretending that everything is normal. Pretending that I wouldn’t be much, much happier slapping the smug off the face of that bitch, Rune.

Don’t be Sophia.

I hate that it’s my new mantra. I’ve spent years proving myself, fighting for acceptance, trying to get both my team and the villains to take me seriously. Now I’m having the potential results of that thrown in my face. I hate that I can so easily see myself in Sophia’s shoes. Bitter. Angry. Impulsive.

I need to take this lesson, internalize it. Reason, consideration. Think things through, it’s… I think of Armsmaster. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a good man, a great hero. I’m not sure where all the robo-Armsmaster jokes came from, but he’s really not like that. He’s just… Driven. Maybe a little over-focused.

Is that who I want to be? Is there such a thing as too much reason? I remember watching interviews with Alexandria and realize that there is. But thinking of her reminds me of the rest of the Triumvirate.

Legend. Also a great hero, but maybe more importantly, a genuinely kind man. When you hear him talk, you can tell that he absolutely believes in what he’s doing. That he cares.

So reason, tempered with empathy. That’s what will make me a better hero.

"Missy! There's now a 94% chance that I won't be kidnapped within a year! Isn’t it wonderful?"

I stop myself from reflexively snapping at Rory’s cousin for being weird. I just finished telling myself to do better, but my first impulse is to be bitchy. I guess I have a long way to go. Still, I need to try, and there’s no time like the present. "That's, uh... That's great, Dinah. Glad to hear it. So, why did you think you might be kidnapped?"

The startled expression on her face is enough to tell me that I might have just found something interesting. Then she smiles brightly. “There’s a 98% chance that you’ll believe me! That’s changed, too! Nobody ever believed me,” she finishes sullenly.

No, everyone just thought you were being weird and ignored it. My thoughts are racing. Powers often show up in families, but they can express in wildly different ways. There are rumors that Director Piggot took down one of the villains yesterday, and Hookwolf got taken down by some newbie Saturday night. “So, out of curiosity, were your odds of getting kidnapped higher before this weekend?”

She looks startled again. “How…?”

I nod as if she had answered my question. “I’m not going to ask for any details, but I need to know one thing. Are you safe at home?”

Frowning, she replies, “That’s too vague, it needs to be something I can picture so I…”

I wave my hands, cutting her off. “No, not like that. You don’t need to tell me how it works. I’m asking if you’re having problems with your family.”

She seems distracted, frowning. After a moment, her eyes go wide in… awe? She glances around carefully to make sure nobody is near, then whispers very quietly, “91% chance you’ll put on a costume in the next twelve hours.”

Aw, fudge. “Yeah, I probably should have seen that coming.” Oh God, and now she’s staring at me with raw hero worship. Ugh, this is going to be so awkward. Just, please don’t…

Still whispering, she asks, “Could I get your autograph? Later, I mean? You were always my favorite!”

She did. Fans.

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Tuesday, January 18 – 11:40 AM

This is worse than I ever imagined. I don’t know if I can do this. I thought I’d just slip in, integrate quietly. Nobody would care about a new student showing up, right?

Wrong.

The students here are inquisitive. Everybody wants to know about the new girl. At Winslow, this level of curiosity would get you beat up and left bleeding in a dumpster. I thought Jordan was just an oddball, but people keep talking to me. Is it me? Am I putting out some kind of wounded puppy vibe that everyone is picking up on?

I involuntarily think of Rachel. Hopefully Calle will help get her situation sorted out. I’m glad Lisa decided to basically drag her team out of villainy, kicking and screaming as it were. I tried asking her why, but all she did was roll her eyes and tell me that it was a “bad time to be a villain in Brockton Bay.”

Whatever. I’m too busy trying to understand why all these people are being nice. Worse, I have to go to the cafeteria to eat; Arcadia is way too closely monitored to try to sneak off and eat in a bathroom. I just want to have a calm, relaxing lunch without dealing with everyone’s curiosity about why I transferred.

Really? That’s… that’s it?

I take a deep breath and relax myself into my power. I don’t know if I can actually feel the oxytocin hit or if it’s just a placebo effect from knowing my power had basically poked at my pituitary to calm me down. Either way, the effect is the same – I’m calmer and I’m ready to face the crowd.

I skitter into the cafeteria and make a show of looking around nervously. Apparently finding who I’m looking for, I make my way over and call out, “Jordan!” I wave timidly when she looks up.

She’s sitting with a few of her friends. And they are friends, she’s really not like Greg at all, she’s known Andy since kindergarten and they’ve been best friends ever since. Right, no, I’m going to stop cheating now, I don’t need to know that he has a crush on her and… Stopping!

She smiles brightly at me. “Taylor! Hello! How was your morning? Grab a seat! Oh, this is Stacy, Mark, Andy, and Pauline. Everyone, this is Taylor, she just transferred in today!” Oh God, and she really is just a nice person who was worried about a complete stranger. She thought I was going to have a panic attack this morning and she maybe wasn’t actually wrong about that. I think I’d be getting teary at her sincere kindness if my power wasn’t keeping me floating on a sea of calm.

I smile nervously and… Mark thinks I have a pretty smile? Wait, Stacy thinks I have a pretty smile and really likes my hair and is imagining me in leather pants…?! Right, TMI. Focus.

“Thanks! Uh… Hi everyone. Look…” I pause, closing my eyes briefly and square my shoulders as if steeling myself for confrontation. “I know… I know everyone is curious about the new girl and all, but things at Winslow were really bad. I’m just…” I pause again and slouch a bit. “I’m not ready to talk about that, ok?”

They all make sympathetic noises. Stacy nods decisively, declaring, “Right, no talking about the transfer, then. So…” She trails off, obviously fishing for a safe topic of conversation. “Um… Hobbies?”

I give her a thankful look and studiously ignore the resulting blush. As I fish my sandwich out of the bag, I make a show of thinking about my answer. “Well, I’ve always been a big reader, but I’ve recently found that I really enjoy cooking. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I can do with the right ingredients.”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Wednesday, January 19 – 6:50 AM

Well. With news like that, I guess I won’t be the hot topic of conversation today.

Spoiler: Author’s notes

This is basically the capstone of the second arc, leading into a timeskip of a few weeks. To be honest, mostly because I have zero interest in writing a story about a very damaged girl having difficulty acclimating to a student body that doesn’t seem to be actively out to persecute her.

The next chapter up will be an interlude that is mostly not focused on Taylor, but it will touch on some of the other effects of Taylor’s actions. It’ll primarily cover some major events that have been going on elsewhere and will allude to others.

Very loosely, I define the first arc as “What the hell is going on?” and the second as “Wait, I can do this?” The third and final arc will be something to the effect of “Hey, hold my beer and check this out!”

Spoiler: Rehosting notes

This is one of the chapters I'd like to see fleshed out a bit more. If I rewrite/re-edit, I'll likely redistribute some of the later material into this part.

 

Some slice of life as Taylor begins adjusting to Arcadia. Everything other than the last bit is canon.

--------​

Jordan McVee – Tuesday, January 18 – 3:40 PM

It’s while we’re walking to Mark’s house that Andy decides to try being funny. “So, the new girl,” he drawls. “On a scale of one to ten, just how fucked up…”

I interrupt before he can shove his foot any further down his throat. “Taylor’s the one from the news, the one that was attacked at Winslow a few weeks ago.”

“...oh.” Good. I’ve warned him about being a judgmental idiot.

Pauline is shaking her head, though. “As awful as that is – and don’t get me wrong, that’s pretty fucking bad – there’s got to be more to it than that. C’mon, you had to see the way she kept flipping between calm and nervous.”

“It was us,” Mark notes.

“Wait, what? We never…! We wouldn’t…!” I can’t even get the thought out. How could he think that we would do anything to her? To anyone?

“Didn’t say we did. She was fine as long as she was distracted from being around people. Cheerful, even. As soon as she remembered she was in a crowd, she closed up again.”

“Oh, God. That’s what she reminded me of,” Stacy murmurs. She continues in a louder voice, “You know my brother volunteers at an animal shelter, right? Some of the dogs who’ve been abused are like that, both wanting affection and hiding from anyone who offers it.”

Nodding, Mark picks it back up. “That sounds about right. Take someone as outgoing as Jordan, then isolate her and systematically tear her down every time she tries to connect to anyone. An extrovert who is not just shy, but actually afraid of people.” Ugh, he sounds vaguely fascinated by it, like it’s an article he’s reading and not someone’s life. That’s our Mark, voted most likely to be a criminal mastermind when he grows up.

“Yeah, alright, so let’s say someone decided to fuck up her life,” Pauline counters. “Where the hell were her friends during this?” Gesturing at me, she continues, “You compared her to Jordan – we all know she can walk through a room and collect all the strays without even trying.”

I frown. My friends are not strays. They just have… unique circumstances.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Andy interjects. Thank you, Andy. “I was totally the one who befriended Jordan, not the other way around.” ...that’s not the spirited defense I was hoping for.

“That’s because you’re her bestie. You gave her the confidence to lure the rest of us in,” Stacy explains oh so helpfully.

Still, she’s not entirely wrong. I mean, Andy is my rock, I don’t know what I’d do without him. I frown. “You think she lost her Andy?”

Mark is frowning too. “Perhaps. Regardless, something had to happen to isolate her initially. Once she was isolated, someone decided, for whatever reason, to capitalize on that; to escalate from isolation to destruction.”

“She mentioned her dad a few times, nothing about her mom or any sibs,” Stacy observes thoughtfully.

“So, they split? Or maybe her mom died,” Pauline guesses.

Mark hums thoughtfully. “Yes, either could be the source of the initial isolation. A significant upheaval within her family would likely leave her clinging to her social circle. Any secondary relationships would likely collapse under the strain, leaving only her closest friends. Her ‘Andy,’ as you put it,” he says, nodding towards me.

“Yeah, but that brings us right back around again,” Pauline argues. “Andy would fucking crucify anyone who tried that on Jordan, even if the rest of us were out of the picture.”

“Yes, but as Jordan pointed out, she’d lack that ardent defense if he were also ‘out of the picture.’ There are any number of potential reasons it could happen, from the benign to the malign.”

“Nah,” Andy interjects, “you’re not giving Jordan enough credit. Even without me, she’d still pick up the pieces, eventually find a new best friend. Even if she started off isolated, there’s no way she’d stay that way.”

“Also, most people just wouldn’t care either way. Whoever was doing this, they’d only be able to influence their own clique,” Stacy observes. “Maybe a few extended acquaintances, but it’s not like they could turn the whole school against her.”

A horrible, ugly suspicion is starting to grow. “These people, the ones that were doing this? They’d have to know her pretty well, wouldn’t they?”

Mark considers the idea for a minute, then glances from Andy to me. Finally, he nods. “Yes. Yes, I believe so. To consistently induce that degree of damage, to effectively restrain her social interactions so thoroughly, both would require a certain degree of intimacy. They would have to be able to accurately predict her responses and preemptively act to limit her options.”

He knows, but he’s going to make me present my own conclusion. Knows it’ll have more impact if I say it. Ugh. I wish I could say he was wrong. I gather my thoughts for a moment, then begin softly. “I don’t think she lost her Andy. I think her Andy turned on her.”

Pauline is frowning angrily at Mark, and Stacy is glancing between the two, trying to figure out what she missed.

Andy just stares at me, wounded. “Jordan, I would never…”

“I know,” I answer quietly. “I know you wouldn’t. But you could, if you woke up one day and decided you hated me. You know me better than anyone, would be able to do far worse than any stranger, could do it more effectively, more thoroughly than even my family. You would know everything that would hurt the most, know how to twist it to do as much damage as possible. You’d know how I’d react, when I’d try to go for help and what I’d say. How to discredit me, make me look like I was making it all up.” I know I’m starting to babble, but I can’t stop, too many ideas trying to push their way out. “If things are bad at home, too, if she can’t get help from her family…”

Pauline is hugging me. Why is Pauline hugging me? Stacy is digging through her purse for something. Andy is staring into the distance with a shellshocked expression. Mark is frowning and rubbing his arm. Stacy makes a soft noise of triumph and offers me a tissue? Oh! I’m crying! I hate crying. It makes me all blotchy and Mark just shoved Andy at me and Pauline and Andy are both hugging me now and my friends are awesome so I just let go for a minute.

“While there are likely nuances of which we’re unaware,” Mark observes after a moment, “Jordan likely has the right of it. A social gaslighting campaign, perpetuated by someone who knows her particularly well. I admit, I don’t specifically recall; did she mention anything noteworthy about her home life?”

After thinking it over briefly, Stacy remarks, “Everything was recent. Like, last few weeks recent.” She pauses, apparently trying to remember details. “No future plans, nothing from before this month.”

“We’ll want to ascertain whether her home life has stabilized or if it’s merely a temporary upturn due to recent events. The kind of support she requires will differ depending on whether she has any reliable adults in her life,” Mark says. At the look Andy gives him, he just rolls his eyes. “Please. Look at Jordan. Tell me our helping isn’t a foregone conclusion.” Smirking, he adds, “Wouldn’t you want someone to help Jordan if that had happened to her?”

Andy mutters something I can’t catch.

“And I would gladly assist. But the point stands.” Looking thoughtful, he continues, “We should probably do a bit of research when we get to my house. Both divorce and death are matters of public record, and it would be helpful to avoid any missteps. Likewise, social media may help illuminate some of the details of what she has undergone.”

Have I said my friends are awesome? My friends are awesome!

--------​

Andy Friedman – Wednesday, January 19 – 12:05 PM

“I made brownies!”

Jesus, she really is like Jordan. At least it’s not knitting. I ask, half out of reflex, “Do you sleep?”

I manage to startle a look of confusion out of her. “Er, yes?”

I nod. “Just checking.” Convincing Jordan to go in for the sleep study had been like pulling teeth, but it had been worth it. Half the manic, twice the social awareness.

Pauline and Stacy are eying the brownies uncertainly. Ah, yes, chocolate, the eternal frenemy of girls everywhere. “Don’t worry, they’re low fat.” Except here, apparently.

Of course, “low fat” is code for “tastes like cardboard.” Mark and I share a look of mutual sympathy. Spending most of our time with the girls, we’ve been subject to more abominations in the name of diet than any guy should have to endure.

Stacy decides to take one for the team and takes the first bite. “Oh, wow! These are really good!” That didn’t sound like she was faking it… Glancing up at Taylor, she continues, “They’re really low fat?”

Taylor nods and looks… shyly smug? Ok, not totally like Jordan then. “Yes, definitely. Cut to this size, they should work out to…” She pauses, apparently doing the math. “About a hundred calories each.”

Stacy does some math of her own, then snags a second one, Pauline following close behind. Mark is sniffing at one curiously and Jordan is giving me the ‘What are you waiting for?’ look as she eats hers, so I cave and try a bite.

Oh. Oh, wow. These are fucking incredible. Why didn’t anyone tell me you could make sex edible? Gives me ideas about getting Jordan somewhere private with a bottle of chocolate sauce.

“Ow!” I rub the back of my head where she just hit me. “What the hell, Pauline?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “You said that out loud, perv.”

Aw, fuck. Jordan has an atomic blush going, and Taylor isn’t far behind. “Uh… They’re really good?” I try innocently.

“I’ve had these before,” Mark declares with certainty. “Actually, they were even better before.” Turning to Taylor, he adds, “Were you helping with the St. Matthew’s bake sale a few weeks ago?”

She happily leaps on the distraction. “Indirectly. One of my neighbors was there, she had mixed up the dates and didn’t have much ready, so I gave her a hand.”

I stare at… Hey, where’d my brownie go? I snag another one. Better than this? Damn, I bet she made a killing selling two inch squares of chocolate seduction. Heh, Stacy looks like she’s ready to throw Taylor down and… “Ow! Damn it, Pauline!” Jordan is looking at me and making squeaking noises. “Crap. Again?”

“Right, so today we’ve learned that Taylor’s baking gives Andy’s libido control of his mouth,” Pauline remarks snidely. Turning to Taylor, she adds, “Seriously though, you have got to give me the recipe.”

Taylor ducks her head and murmurs, “Uh… There isn’t one? I mean, I should be able to write it all out, but it all just… comes to me, you know?”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “An impressive talent, then. Regardless, I believe the lovebirds are long overdue for a conversation. I motion that the rest of us adjourn to the library for now.” Oh, you bastard.

As they walk off, I hear Stacy asking, “Oh, hey! Who had January in the pool?”

“Pauline. I had February, I was certain he’d hold out for Valentine’s day.”

I look across the table at Jordan, where she’s still looking surprised and flushed. “Uh… Surprise?”

--------​

Pauline Yovenko – Friday, January 21 – 11:45 AM

I rifle through my bag again to make sure. “Crap. Mark, can you spot me a couple bucks? I’m gonna need to snag something in line, I forgot my lunch.”

Taylor, now practically a regular after eating with us all week, immediately pipes up. “I brought salad today. I’ve got enough to share,” she continues hesitantly, “if you want…?”

Jordan and Andy are too busy making googly eyes at each other to notice and Stacy is out today, but Mark is frowning and I can tell we’re on the same wavelength. “No thanks.” She’s brought food for us every day other than the day we met. Enough is enough.

She’s already folding up again, so I hurry to explain. “Look, we get it. You’re a kitchen goddess, and everything you’ve brought has been fucking incredible. And while part of me would love to see what you can do with a salad, you don’t need to… to do… this.” Crap, I’m floundering.

Mark picks it up, though. “What she’s quite correctly trying to tell you is that you don’t need to buy your seat with us. We’ve enjoyed your company this week, and as far as we’re concerned, you have a standing invitation here.”

I nod. “Yeah, what Moriarty said.” He rolls his eyes at the nickname, but I press on. “We’ve been avoiding it, but maybe it’s time to address the elephant in the room. You’re not in Winslow any more, Taylor. You’re with us now, and we’ve got your back. I don’t know what was going on in that shithole, but we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

She stares at me like she’s trying to read my mind. Maybe she is, or next best thing. Whatever she’s been through, she’s all sharp, jagged edges. I don’t think she’s going to trust any time soon, but I’m guessing she can still pick up on sincerity.

Me, I have a feeling I know what’s coming next. Sure enough, the waterworks start a minute later and I lead her off to the restroom for a bit of privacy. How the hell did I end up the group shoulder anyway?

I see Mark moving to buy something from the lunch line. Good, I’ll at least have some fries waiting for me when we get back.

--------​

Non-canon bonus

Amy Dallon – Wednesday, January 19 – 12:08 PM

“Oooh, brownies! Can I have one?”

I roll my eyes. I love my sister dearly (too dearly), but she’s such a child sometimes. “Really, Vicky? Mooching sweets off random underclassmen now?”

The girl with the brownies, a plain looking thing, just shrugs. “Uh, sure?”

“Thanks!” she chirps, snatching one from the aluminum tray. As she takes a bite, her eyes go wide. “Oh my God, Ames! You have got to try these! Seriously, where’d you get these from?”

The girl offers me the tray as she mumbles something about making them. I pick one up, examining it dubiously. Shrugging, I take a bite.

Oh.

I feel almost lightheaded, and I realize Vicky is supporting me. That was… How is that even a thing? Judging by Vicky’s smirk and the girl’s blush, I must have made a noise. I can’t read myself, but Vicky already has her arm around me. No drugs, elevated oxytocin levels, but nothing unusual. Nothing that could possibly explain that reaction.

Granted, that was quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Still, I turn to my sister and… she’s just my sister. I mean, I still love her, but it’s like everything that was wrong is just a faint echo of what it was.

“Uh, Amy? You’re looking a little wobbly. You might want to sit down if you’re going to finish that,” Vicky suggests, still smirking.

I look at the brownie again and feel a wave of… Oh, what the fuck, seriously? No. No, I can work with this. This is much better than the alternative. I sit down at the girl’s table. “Right, how much?”

Still blushing, she shrugs. “They’re low fat, about a hundred calories each.”

Vicky is over the moon. “Holy shit, are you serious? That’s it, we’re keeping you. How do you feel about being the official confectioner of New Wave?”

I shake my head. “Not the calories. I want two trays every week. Say, Mondays and Thursdays? How much? Wait, screw the low fat, do you have a regular recipe?”

One of the guys she was sitting with speaks up. “She does. I’ve had them before, they’re even better.”

Better?! My heart flutters as I imagine better. “Right. Name your price.” I look the girl over speculatively, notice the shoulder brace under her shirt. “I’ll even throw in healing.” I lean closer, pitch my voice so it won’t carry. “We don’t advertise it, but I can do cosmetic touch ups. You can have whatever look you want.”

The girl is leaning back, looking skittish. Vicky is looking at me warily. “Sis?”

Her friend – boyfriend? – leans forward. “I believe that the offered healing is a good point to begin negotiations. Now,” he smirks, “let’s discuss the details, shall we?”

--------​

Spoiler: Rehosting notes

After originally posting this, I was asked what “canon omake” means. The short version is that this is material that doesn't advance the plot of PtM but is still completely compatible with its canon. Basically, you can consider it to have happened, but don't need to read it to understand the rest of the story.

 

This was originally going to be just an interlude, a series of news clippings; the actual reactions were going to be in the next part. I decided to weave them together to give them better context/flow, and that created another double sized (for me) chapter.

This is also the chapter where a lot of you will figure out at least large swaths of what’s going on. At the very least, this chapter marks the first time you have almost all the pieces of the puzzle.

Welcome to the third arc. This ride ain’t got no brakes.

--------​

The Brockton Bay Gazette – Early Edition – Wednesday, January 19

Slaughterhouse: None

Jack Slash. Bonesaw. The Siberian. Crawler. Hatchet Face. Shatterbird. Mannequin. Burnscar. Collectively, the Slaughterhouse Nine.

Today, after a quarter century of terror and death, they are no more.

In a daring joint operation early this morning, members of the Guild and the Protectorate successfully captured or killed all eight parahumans currently associated with the Nine. The operation was made possible due to new information from an as of yet unnamed Protectorate Thinker.

“She had this totally awesome plan, stayed on top of things the whole time,” Mouse Protector told us. “It’s like her power was tailor made to coordinate heroes against major threats.”

Jack Slash was killed in the opening seconds by the renowned Canadian Tinker, Dragon, through the use of a remote drone.

“The technology was originally developed in collaboration with Armsmaster for use against the Endbringers,” Dragon stated. “We knew that Bonesaw had augmented [Jack Slash] significantly, so we didn’t want to take any chances.”

Credit for the death of Crawler was given to the new Protectorate Tinker, Starburst. From the New York office, this was her first major outing since she was personally recruited by Legend earlier this month.

“It was incredible!” one anonymous PRT agent exclaimed on the fight. “Just, bam! One minute Crawler was charging at [Starburst], the next he was a giant glass statue!”

A dramatic aerial duel between Narwhal and Shatterbird resulted in…

--------​

Mark Dorsey – Wednesday, January 19 – 12:20 PM

While the others head to the library to finish assignments due this afternoon, Taylor accompanies me to the media room. It seems a full third of the school is here for the same reason we are, to get updates on the end of the Nine. I notice the resident celebrity heroes are in attendance; curiously, Taylor notices them as well but pays them little heed. Unusual in a new student.

The same soundbites from the early morning press conference are being played again, intermingled with speculation by the reporters. I disregard it and take the opportunity to observe my companion instead. She’s frowning, intent on what’s being said, but none of it seems new to her. I wait for the commercial break and ask, “Newspaper?”

She nods absently. “Somebody left one on the bus, I read it on the way in. We don’t usually watch TV in the morning.”

We share no courses; other than an impressive aptitude for baking, I know little about her. In the absence of actual news, I attempt to engage her in discussion on the subject. “Convenient that a new Thinker was able to produce a plan to neutralize the Nine before even coming up with a name.”

She shakes her head, disagreeing. “The information was new. Nothing was said about the Thinker at all, just that she wasn’t being named. In that context…”

I frown, mentally replaying the segment. “You’re right, they’re playing word games. Well caught.” I consider it further. “Which begs the question: If the Thinker isn’t new…”

“...what has she been working on that was more important than the Nine?”

I smile. “Quite. And what about that changed recently?”

We sit in silence for a moment, considering those questions. I remark, “The Endbringers would seem to be an obvious answer to the first, but there has been no recent news there. The next attack is still forecast between mid-February and mid-March.”

Another moment passes, then she mutters, almost to herself, “I wonder what their objective was?”

“Oh? Many would say that ending the Nine was the objective.” I pause, then continue, “Still, I believe you have a point. If killing the Nine was the objective, then, based on what has been said of the attack, Dragon, Starburst, and Eidolon should have been sufficient. Perhaps even Dragon alone while bearing Starburst’s devices. Why capture any of them? Why the extended show? Why catch some of the fights on camera but not others?”

She smiles at me. Now that is distracting. “Someone I recently met argued that most parahumans are playing a very expensive, very risky, full contact game of Cops and Robbers.”

I shake my head. “That seems an almost dangerously naive perspective.”

“It is,” she agrees, “and in fairness, she explicitly excluded the S-rank threats from that analogy. Anyway, I brought it up because she was right in pointing out that there’s a certain level of… of pageantry involved, especially with the Protectorate. Some of the language from this press release is much more florid than you’d expect in a report from an arrest or a military action.”

“So you contend that, for example, the ‘dramatic’ fight between Narwhal and Shatterbird…”

“...was phrased specifically to show that the heroes are heroic and that Good will win against Evil. ‘Dramatic aerial duel’ evokes every Hollywood dogfight cliché, an impression of a brave yet overmatched pilot overcoming the odds to triumph over the nefarious, highly skilled enemy.”

Oh, she’s good. “You’re correct, of course; I had noticed the colorful phrasing, but hadn’t taken it to its logical conclusion. Regardless, even if public relations plays an aspect in the press release, why go to the added effort of capturing any of them? Surely they could have spun a similar narrative regardless of what took place.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. Obviously there has to be a reason for them to have handled it the way they did. I doubt it’s to stand trial.”

“Agreed,” I comment as I nod. “The act of voluntarily joining the Nine results in an automatic kill order; while it’s technically a trial in absentia, it’s considered valid under current legal interpretation. I rather doubt they intend to use a member of the Nine to appeal.”

She grins sardonically. “It’s a shame we can’t just have lunch with that Thinker and discuss the finer points of the plan with her.” She pauses, glancing at the TV just as the soundbite of Mouse Protector praising said Thinker loops again. She’s staring at it now, almost entranced. “Mark? How many casualties were there among the heroes?”

I shrug. “None, or at least none that have been reported.”

“And in a normal engagement with the Nine?”

“Heavy.” I pause for a moment, considering the press releases I’ve seen on the subject. “Even in the absence of fatalities, it’s not unusual for entire teams to take varying degrees of injury. The absence of fatalities is, of course, exceedingly rare.”

“So it wasn’t just a good plan. It was a perfect plan, able to account for everything done by everyone at the battle, regardless of how improbable that seems, and did so in a way to allow for the safe capture of some and the immediate execution of others.”

I hum thoughtfully. “Yes, that appears to be the gist of it. That’s a rather impressive display of precognitive ability; I wonder why we haven’t heard of her before now? Even if they were keeping her capabilities quiet, I would expect a certain amount of word to spread. Even Accord has achieved a degree of infamy with his plans.”

“Unless she had a similar plan to keep her presence hidden…”

“Perhaps. But to what effect?”

The bell rings before anything else can be said, and we go our separate ways. Still, it was a very engaging conversation; she certainly brings with her both a new perspective and an aptitude for linguistic interpretation that our group currently lacks. I think she’ll make a lovely… a good addition to our group.

--------​

The Brockton Bay Gazette – Afternoon Edition – Friday, January 21

Jack Slash: Parahuman Heartbreaker?

In a shocking development, the PRT today announced that ongoing interrogation of the surviving members of the Slaughterhouse Nine has revealed that Jack Slash may have had the ability to control other parahumans with his speech.

“Even short conversations would lead to immediate behavioral alterations,” explained one PRT researcher. “Longer term exposure would create an effect comparable to that of Heartbreaker. We believe he may have also been able to sense other parahumans, possibly even to ‘read’ their intentions.”

Though known to be highly charismatic, this would explain much about both his ability to successfully control the Nine and his ability to evade justice for so long.

When asked what this meant for the captured members of the Nine, the PRT indicated that…

--------​

Lisa Wilbourn – Friday, January 21 – 8:20 PM

“That headline still bugs me. Anyway, I’m thinking it’s the classic ‘mix some truth in with the lies’ routine. Some parts of it are definitely true, some are definitely false, but I never met the dearly departed and there’s not enough relevant info for me to tell you which is which.”

I take a bite of the ridiculously delicious spaghetti carbonara. After I finish chewing, I add, “You know, while I appreciate the gesture, you don’t need to make dinner for me just to pick my brain.”

She blushes. Not the first time she’s heard that. Not the first time she’s heard that today. “I know, and I’m not trying to buy your friendship.” Means it. “It’s just… It’s easy for me to do, and it makes people happy.” She glances down. Embarrassed. “It’s also kind of a habit now. ‘What should I bring to eat?’, you know?”

I grin wryly. “No, because if I rode my power out of habit, I’d be laid up with a migraine.”

She folds in on herself. Damn it. “C’mon, it was a joke. Sure, I’m a little jealous that you don’t get ‘em, but being envious over someone else’s power is like saying ‘Wow, I wish my life sucked as hard as yours did.’”

“...what?” Frowning. Confused. Never researched…

I cock an eyebrow. “You never looked into trigger events?”

She shakes her head. “No. From context, I’m assuming that’s how powers… happen?”

“Yep. Basically, it happens on the worst day of your life, when you’re at your absolute lowest. You’ll black out for a few seconds, and when you wake up, there it is: Life’s crappiest consolation prize.” I take another bite of pasta.

“I don’t remember anything like that happening…” Is serious.

I frown and finish chewing. “Your injury? It didn’t happen then?”

“On the third?” She shrugs. “Could have. I don’t remember anything about that morning, but the guy who gave me first aid said I was out a lot longer than a few seconds. Hell, I spent the first few minutes having a seizure; that’s actually how I dislocated my shoulder. I didn’t regain consciousness until after the ambulance arrived, and Greg said that was about ten minutes.” Not upset. No emotional context for the events.

“Huh.” Wow, that’s disconcerting. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a fresh trigger who was so blasé about it. I guess if you have no recollection of that low point… “Just to let you know? You don’t normally ask what happened to make someone trigger…”

“Sure, I could see how going up to someone and saying ‘Hey, tell me all about your worst trauma,’ would be kind of rude.”

I close my eyes and don’t think of pink elephants. “Yeah. Uh, anyway, you probably had yours then, but I guess the short term memory loss wiped it… Did anyone fill you in on what happened? Before the seizure?”

--------​

The Brockton Bay Gazette – Early Edition – Saturday, January 22

Retraction

We would like to apologize for the unintended wordplay in yesterday’s headline, “Jack Slash: Parahuman Heartbreaker?” Online editions have been revised to read “Jack Slash: Puppet Master?” We at the Gazette have no opinion on the relative attractiveness of the notorious mass murderer.

--------​

The Brockton Bay Gazette – Early Edition – Monday, January 24

Facing the Music

In another stunning announcement, PRT researchers have revealed that they may have found a method of reliably detecting victims of the Simurgh...thanks to the Slaughterhouse Nine?

“Under the influence of Jack Slash, Bonesaw performed innumerable atrocities. She also delved deeper into the nature and effects of parahuman abilities than anyone else, living or dead.”

The inability to identify the influence of the Endbringer is behind the current policy of putting entire cities into quarantine when she lingers too long. A reliable detection method might mean an end to the quarantines.

“Detection is just the first step. But this? This gives us hope. If we can detect it, we may be able to find a way to reverse it.”

--------​

Lisa Wilbourn – Monday, January 24 – 7:45 PM

“One hundred percent grade A bullshit. Bonesaw wouldn’t have given a fuck about detecting Simurgh victims. She was riding around with Alan fucking Gramme.”

“Damn it.” Disappointed. Wanted it to be true.

“That said, they’re using her as a smoke screen to release the detection method that they got from somewhere else. Why’s this so important to you?”

She thinks it over for a minute, like she’s trying to find the words for it. Finally, she gives me a smirk… Damn it, that’s one of mine. She’s using her power again, the little cheater. “I believe my former high school librarian is secretly pulling the strings of the PRT and Protectorate.”

What.

“Since she’s the only person I can’t use my power on, I’m trying to figure out what her goal is and whether I should be trying to help her, stop her, or stay out of her way.”

What.

She casually sips her tea, then adds as an afterthought, “Also, I’m nearly positive she gave me my power deliberately, but I can’t figure out why.”

--------​

The Brockton Bay Gazette – Evening Edition – Monday, January 31

Manton: Surviving the Slaughterhouse

In his first public appearance since his rescue from decade long captivity at the hands of Jack Slash, Dr. William Manton today gave a statement to the press and fielded questions.

“It was awful,” he murmured in a haunted tone. “Jack was completely obsessed with the origin and nature of powers. I can only assume he came after me when he learned of my research. I’d be locked in that van for days at a time.”

One reporter asked if he had been able to further his research while held captive. “Oh, yes,” he snarled. “At the cost of the lives of thousands. The blood of innocents is on my hands, I swim in a veritable river of it. The Nyiszli to Bonesaw’s Mengele. Everything I’ve done is irrevocably tainted.”

In response to a follow up question regarding the research of Simurgh victims, he responded tersely, “No, I had no involvement in that. Bonesaw must have been working on it exclusively.”

When asked of his plans for the future, he told us, “Some very dear friends have graciously offered me a place to stay. I shall be taking them up on their offer for the foreseeable future.”

--------​

Stacy Nakamura – Tuesday, February 1 – 11:50 AM

“Thoughts on Manton?” Oh, joy. Current events roundtable with Mark. Always a great way to appreciate Taylor. Lunch. Taylor’s lunch. Lunch with Taylor. Why is she smirking? God, sometimes it’s like she knows but doesn’t want to embarrass me.

Is it still too soon to ask her to pose? It’s still too soon. But I want to draw her, she’s got such great lines! Those legs would be perfect for my OC, just add leather and some armor plating!

She shakes her head, sending that gorgeous hair swishing gently. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

I want to ask her so bad. My hair always comes out looking flat, like a big solid chunk of plastic. Her hair has so much texture, such gorgeous shading, if I could just practice drawing it, it’d help so much! But I need a reference, I can’t do it from memory, and the lighting is all wrong in the one pic I snapped with my phone.

“Really, Taylor? Star Wars quotes? I could get that from Andy.”

“Hey!”

“Yes, but would they be relevant?” Yep, Taylor’s definitely getting more comfortable with us. Maybe soon?

“Hey! What is this, Pick on Andy Day?”

“Only on days that end with Y,” Pauline fires back.

“Jordan! They’re being mean to me!”

“Relevant, how?” Aw, Mark’s trying to get the conversation back on track.

She shakes her head again. Maybe I could just sketch it during lunch? “I can’t put it into words. It’s just, something about him seems… Skeevy. Predatory.”

“You’re not wrong, I got the same vibe. I’d make a joke about creepy old men in vans, but, uh…” Pauline trails off.

Jordan picks up where she left off. “But it’s kind of awkward when he actually spent ten years being a creepy old man in a van.”

Mark nods. “So you don’t believe his protestations? Not an innocent victim?”

Andy snorts. “Dude, he spent ten years riding around with the worst mass murderers ever. Half of ‘em either ate their victims or made things out of them. I figure he’s probably some cannibalistic spree killer too, he just keeps that part hidden.”

Taylor smiles strangely. That’s a really weird expression, very… Oooh, sour! “I don’t think I’d have phrased it exactly like that, but still, you pretty much took the words right out of my mouth.”

--------​

The Brockton Bay Gazette – Evening Edition – Wednesday, February 2

The King is Dead

On February 2, 2001, Nilbog successfully claimed the city of Ellisburg for himself and his creations.

Today marks the tenth anniversary of that event, but now his reign is finally over.

Another joint Guild/Protectorate operation, another chance for the Tinkers to shine. Armsmaster, Dragon, and Starburst, assisted by many of Dragon’s drones, have successfully executed the kill order on the notorious villain by virtue of removing the entire city from the face of the Earth.

Starburst was fielding questions while Armsmaster coordinated the removal of the barricade.

“What we did was super complicated, but I’ll try to keep it simple for you. First we locked the entire city into a fixed point of time, based on some work that [Armsmaster] did with one of his Wards. Grabbed the whole thing from a few hundred feet in the air to a few hundred feet into the bedrock – didn’t want to chance that [villain] leaving a surprise behind.

“Once we had it locked down, we teleported the entire [fine] city into the sun. Fwoosh! Let me tell you, calibrating the teleportation effect was a [challenge] and a half!”

With the second removal of a major threat this year…

--------​

Emily Piggot – Wednesday, February 2 – 6:30 AM

The last two weeks have been a complete nightmare of bureaucracy. Calvert had his fingers in everything and rooting out the corruption is going to be a task of months. We’ve failed to recover any of his assets; whatever he did to launder his money, it’s hidden too well for us to find. Regardless, his arrest is already making a difference in the overall situation in the city.

There’s a joke among the capes that getting arrested, nine times out of ten, is a matter of riding the revolving door until you get right back out again. In Brockton Bay, Calvert was largely responsible for the catch and release program. He knew every transport, knew who to leak the information to, and did it time and again just to help ramp up the pressure in the underworld.

Now? Hookwolf went off to Baumann without so much as a hint that the Empire knew when he was being transferred. There are indications that Kaiser is losing the trust of some of his subordinates. Without Calvert setting them against each other, though, the other gangs aren’t escalating. Not yet, anyway.

Calvert himself has been squirreled away by WEDGDG. They think he’ll be useful; I’m not really happy with it, but based on what we know of his power, I can’t really blame them either. He’ll spend the rest of his life as little better than an indentured servant. It’s far better than he deserves, but he’ll be under a degree of scrutiny that probably wouldn’t be feasible in prison.

Makes me wonder if Romano was here to scout him in the first place. Still no sign of what happened to that damn woman – it’s like she disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Now I have Colin and the new girl from New York, Starburst, sitting in my office and holding a gift box. I finish skimming my email and turn my attention to them. “Alright, I know you’re both supposed to be working on some new secret project. What do you want?”

“Director, we’ve received permission to read you in and offer…” He’s immediately cut off by Starburst.

“We’re going after that fucker in Ellisburg. I heard what he did to you, figured you might like this.” Matching action to word, she hands me the box.

That’s another bit of fallout I owe Calvert for. That damn letter leaked. Everybody knows about Ellisburg now. I’ve got agents who should damn well know better asking for my autograph. Worse, one did it in front of Vista and her new friend. She gave me a look of such sympathy that I almost felt bad about scheduling them for another forty hours of mall appearances together.

Almost.

I carefully open the box. When accepting presents from a Tinker who specializes in exotic explosions, even a friendly one, caution is always warranted.

It’s a button. A big, conspicuously red button. Wait. “Is this…?”

“We’ll be leaving to finish preparations momentarily,” he explains. “At 0900, assuming everything goes as scheduled…”

“Of course it will. Fucking Thinkers,” Starburst mutters quietly.

“...the city of Ellisburg and all its... inhabitants… will be teleported into the sun. We thought you might like to do the honors.”

I stare at them for a moment. Colin stands still, but Starburst fidgets uncomfortably. I swallow. “This is the nicest present anyone has ever given me. Thank you.”

I will deny until my dying day that there were tears in my eyes.

--------​

Andy Friedman – Thursday, February 3 – 11:50 AM

“I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.”

“Nah, I figure if Ripley had access to Tinker bullshit, she’d have been satisfied with teleporting it into the sun, too,” Pauline laughs.

Taylor smiles absently. “I still remember the first time I saw that. I was staying up all night with…” She trails off, thinks it over for a moment, and settles on, “...someone I used to know. I always felt bad for the colonists. I mean, they were just trying to survive, trying to make a living, and then they got caught up in that whole mess.”

I get ready to give one of my favorite movie arguments when Jordan nudges me. “We’re not turning this into another debate about contractors on the Death Star.”

“Spoilsport.”

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Lisa Wilbourn – Friday, February 4 – 4:30 PM

“So, given the lack of phone calls and dinner offers after the latest from the PRT, I take it you’ve reached a conclusion?”

“I have.” Using her power to control inflection. Using her power to block mine.

“Oh? Do tell! And why are you talking to me through your power?”

“I’m in a really awkward position with this. If I say too little, you get curious and we all die screaming. If I say too much, you don’t need to get curious for us to all die screaming.”

“Well. Well, that’s kind of… Yeah, I guess you could call that ‘awkward,’ but I think I’ll go with ‘horrifying.’”

“You have no idea.”

“And by ‘we all die screaming…?’”

“Extinction level event.”

“...fuck.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I misspoke. Cross-universal extinction level event.”

“That’s a thing?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to hang up the phone and go hide in a corner now.”

“You don’t want to hear the good news?”

“...I don’t know, do I?”

“It’ll be resolved in a few weeks, then I can tell you all about it.”

“Ah. How wonderful. Truly, the anticipation of knowing makes my heart overflow with joy.”

“Oh, and Lisa? One other thing…”

“Yes?”

I listen to Taylor’s parting words and then hang up shakily. While it’s possible that she’s using her power to pull one over on me, I don’t think she is. I have never wanted less to look into something. She could have been more succinct, though. I mean, she could have gotten the point across just as well with something like ‘Well, Lisa, if you investigate this, you’ll be responsible for the death of the human race across all realities. Tea?’

Still, that girl definitely has a gift for motivational speaking.

--------​

Spoiler: Rehosting notes

When I originally posted, I remarked that I expected a lot of people to figure out what was going on and that most of the puzzle had now been revealed. I ended up with one person making a solid guess at it, only to be shut down by other readers throwing "No, you're wrong, because (insert popular reader theory here)" at him. If other readers caught on, they never posted or PM'd me about it. The end result is that the biggest problem I have with this chapter is that I look back at it and wonder if I was too subtle.

 

Greg Veder – Monday, January 3 – 7:40 AM

Aw, man, why do they have to pick on Taylor first thing? They were all just, like, waiting to ambush her when she walked in. She tried to turn around, but Sophia just pushed her back into the group. I was going to ask her how her Christmas was and tell her about the awesome new game I got and see…

Whoa, Taylor just snapped at Sophia! Yeah, you go, don’t let them push… Oh. Ouch. Well, so much for resistance. Man, that’s cold, punched her twice in the stomach, then grabbed her by her hoodie and slammed the back of her head against the locker a bunch of times as she dropped. Poor Taylor, she’s just sitting on the floor dazed now. Hey, I can go over and help her up, that’ll be…

Oh shit! Sophia is coming this way, and she looks pissed.

I duck into a classroom before she notices me and wait for her to pass. I give it an extra minute just to play it safe before stepping back out again.

Emma’s standing over her now and saying something, obviously has been for a bit, but I’m too far away to hear. Taylor looks up at her and says something back, but Emma just laughs, says something else and walks away.

Oh man, Taylor just slumped over, I think she passed out. Someone should probably get the nurse or something. Wait, is that blood where she was leaning? I start walking closer to get a better look. Oh, good, she just moved, she must be waking…

Oh fuck, she’s having a seizure! Oh God, what do I do? We just did the first aid module in health, why can’t I remember anything? C’mon, think man!

Responsiveness! She’s, uh… She’s pretty obviously out of it, but I ask anyway. “Taylor? Can you hear me? Are you ok?” She seems to be breathing, so that’s… That’s good. Just before I reach for her shoulder, there’s a horrifying pop and her left arm flops wrong. Oh God, I’m going to be sick… No, I swallow it back down. I can’t be sick now, I need to keep it together…

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What’s next? What the fuck is next? It clicks, and I point at one of the gawkers. “You, call 9-1-1, now!”

He turns to me and, oh shit, it’s one of the skinheads. “The fuck you say, little man?”

“Hess just beat the shit out of her and her head is bleeding and she’s having a seizure! Call a fucking ambulance!” Did I… Did I just say that? Oh shit, I’m so dead. He’s going to kick the crap out of me and then we’ll need two ambulances…

Instead, he just nods. “Aight, I’m on it. You know whatcha doin’?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just pulls his phone out and dials. It’s all I can do not to giggle hysterically.

Ok, ok, ok, ok… I need to… check for other injuries? Back of her head is bleeding, but not fast. I don’t think I’m supposed to try putting pressure there when she’s having a seizure. Or at all, maybe? Shoulder is wrongwrongwrong, but that seems to be it… I… I can’t really do anything else, just try to make her comfortable and keep her company.

I pull off my coat, bundle it up, tuck it under her head, and sit down next to her.

“Hey, Taylor. I, uh, I don’t know if you can hear me, but it’s Greg. You’re… You’re going to be alright. There’s an ambulance on it’s way. Everything is going to be alright.” Her arm flops again. I gag but still manage to keep my breakfast down.

After what seems like hours (but my watch claims was only about four minutes), she finally settles down. I consider moving her to the recovery position, but hesitate – I’m supposed to put her on her left, but with her shoulder… Is it ok to put her on her right instead? Fuck it, I can’t remember. When in doubt, don’t make it worse; I leave her laying on her back, but keep checking her breathing to make sure she’s not having any (more) problems.

Skinhead-with-a-phone (“‘m Eric. You’re a ballsy one, aintcha.” No, Eric, I’m really, really not.) is the only one of the crowd left, everyone else scattering when the first bell rings. We sit on either side of her, the worst sentries ever, and wait for the ambulance to arrive.

--------​

Spoiler: Rehosting notes

The initial draft of this scene was one of the first things I wrote when I restarted this, as I wanted the details of that morning nailed down. For a while, I debated about whether I should actually post it at all – there's something to be said for letting it go completely unseen. I finally decided that it tied in reasonably well with the conversation about triggers in Part 9, so released it as a distraction when I realized I'd goofed up a canon citation I'd been talking about.

 

Sean Wilson – Saturday, February 5 – 5:30 PM

“Alright, time to go over the plan for tonight and… Damn it, stop screwing around with that!” I take a deep breath, hold it for a three count, then release. I turn my attention back to the hired help. “Look, I get it. Believe me, more than anyone, I understand how cool it is to play with the awesome tinkertech gadgets. But they're fragile, and accidents happen.”

Tonight’s henches – only four of them – are a bit rowdier than the group we normally use, but… Huh, maybe that would drive the point home.

“Look, I know this is your first time working with us. Did you stop to wonder why that is?” Ok, got their attention now. “A couple guys from our usual crew were screwing around with the hard light lances during our Joust episode. The power cells overloaded.”

They’re looking a lot less cocky now. Good. “The good news is, nobody died. Nobody lost any limbs. But a lot of people suffered pretty serious burns, and two of them are still in the hospital. If they’re lucky, Panacea will take care of them and they won’t need extensive skin grafts.” I lose myself in the memory for a few seconds, remembering that nasty ass smell.

Shaking my head, I finally continue, “Treat them like live weapons and you’ll be fine. Handle them like toys and you’re putting all of us at risk. Alright?” I watch them for a minute. They’re handling the mock pulse rifles like the guns they resemble now instead of… of… Nerf guns.

“Good. We’ll be hitting the Helzberg store in the mall. Tonight’s theme is, in part, to celebrate the death of Nilbog. We’re basing it on the old Alien vs. Predator game. Uber is in the other room getting into the Predator suit, while we’ll be going in as Colonial Marines.” One of them raises a hand. “Yes?”

“Uh… If he’s going to be the Predator and we’re the marines, who’s going to be the alien? Uh, sir?”

I snort. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ until we’re in character. With any luck, we won’t have any to deal with tonight. If we’re unlucky, any heroes we encounter will be classified as aliens. Any other questions before…” With a whine and a pop, the generator goes out.

“Ok, nobody panic,” I say with a sigh. “This has happened before. Just give it a minute and the emergency power will…” I’m interrupted by the sound of someone screaming in agony. Damn it.

My mask has a small work light built into it. I trigger it and call out, “All right, who’s hurt?” I hear mutters and mumbles, but nobody speaks up. “Everybody, stay where you are, we’ve got…” I trail off as the narrow beam illuminates a pool of dark liquid and something else glistening near it. I touch the pool, smell it. Blood – hot, fresh.

I trigger the radio. “Uber, we’ve got a visitor, and they’re playing hardball.” I wait a few seconds. “Uber? You there?”

I hear a muffled scream behind me. I spin around, but the work light is only enough to give me a glimpse of legs being rapidly dragged into the darkness. All that’s left behind are more globs of that glistening stuff. I pull out a screwdriver, poke at it. Viscous, like snot. The fuck…?

Right, no, priorities. Uber is out of contact. Only two henches left. “Ok you two, back to back. I don’t know who this fucker is, but they’re going to learn why you don’t fuck with a Tinker in his…” Something long, thin, and hard slams into my legs, sweeping them. I hit the floor face first, the light shatters.

I’m still dazed when a weight presses down on my back, pinning me in place. There’s a hissing noise by my right ear, I hear jaws snapping shut. I feel something hot and slimey drip on the back of my head. No way. No fucking way, someone is just fucking with us, has to be…

The last thing I feel is a sharp pain on the back of my neck.

--------​

Adam Reynolds – ??? – ???

I wake up with something clinging loosely to my face, over my mask, and there’s a tube shoved down my throat. I’m upright and stuck in… something, some nasty ass goop. My head isn’t restrained, though, and after shaking it vigorously, I manage to dislodge whatever it is.

The room is hot, humid. Dark. There’s a little light, though, just enough to make out that there’s someone in front of me, sobbing. I squint. “Leet?” His mask is a wreck, bottom half broken off entirely, revealing dried blood from his nose. Like me, his body is encased by something, but his head is free. “Bro, what’s going on?”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, it was… It was already on you when I woke up. Already drying up. And the one in front of me… It’s already too late for us, man, they’re already in us.”

“C’mon, dude, keep it together. What’re you talking… about…” I trail off as my eyes adjust a little more to the darkness.

I’ve seen this before. In a movie. The room? Corridor? It’s got this stuff all over the walls. Like resin. And there’s a lot of slimy crap everywhere. In front of each of us is a big, leathery egg, the top peeled back in quarters, like the world’s ugliest flower..

Nearby, apparently dead, desiccated, are large, spider like things with long tails. Facehuggers. “No way. No fucking way. This can’t be real.”

“You didn’t see it. Over to the right. My right. I saw it, man, I saw it come out.”

I strain my eyes against the darkness. There’s someone else stuck there… No, there was someone else stuck there. I can barely see the body, ribs smashed open like… Oh, Jesus. “You saw it.”

“He never woke up. Jerked a couple times, then there was blood spraying everywhere. It wasn’t like the movies, though, it didn’t sit there hissing. Leapt right out, heard it skittering away.”

Jesus fucking Christ. “How the fuck…? How can this be real?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Some biotinker, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Fuck. If there’s a hive on Earth…” I briefly remember the old comics we read. “Dude, they’re going to nuke the city, no way they’re going to let this get a foothold.”

“So fucking what?! So what?! We’re already fucking dead, they’re already inside us,” he snarls out before sobbing again.

Fuck. I think I’m in shock. I know I should be pissed off or crying or something, but I just feel… numb.

There’s a cracking noise. I see a bulge momentarily press out of the… the cocoon over his chest. Oh Jesus. “Look at me, bro. Don’t look down. Don’t look down, just look at my face.” His mouth is wide open, gasping for air. “I know we’ve got our regrets. We’ve talked about how we fucked up, how we slid from rogues to villains, but I want you to know…” I flinch sympathetically as there’s another crack. “No, don’t look down, c’mon, eyes up. I want you to know, the one thing I don’t regret, is spending that time with you. You’re my best friend, man…” Another pop, and the blood sprays and fuck, it’s all over my face and I can see it hit his too and he’s screaming and I’m screaming…

--------​

Ethan Cooper – Saturday, February 5 – 6:30 PM

When I hear the screams, I close the remaining distance as fast as possible and pop the door, my darling wife right behind me. The lights flicker on – either timed or automatic, doesn’t really matter.

Even lit up, the place is damn impressive. She really knows how to set a scene.

“Boys? You can stop screaming now.” They don’t. I sigh. “You’re not dying. There’s not an alien monstrosity sticking out of your chest. Look down.”

Erin sighs. “Would a little decorum be too much to ask for?”

Uber looks down first. He stares blankly at the yellow smiley face bobblehead that popped through his cocoon. “I… What…?”

“So, any idea what you did to piss off the Bay’s favorite – and only – food themed cape?” I ask.

Leet is giggling now, repeating, “He’s not dead! He’s not dead!” over and over.

Uber is a little more together. “Food…? What…?” Ok, a very little more together.

“Jello, boys,” I snicker. “You’re soaking in it.”

Erin glares at me, then starts peeling Leet out. Oh, hey, ziptied too – it’s like walking in and finding your carry out just made the counter and is ready to go.

I snap off one of the facehugger legs and try an experimental bite. “Mmm, lemon! My favorite!”

Erin’s shoulders slump. “Don’t eat the evidence. The director is still angry with you over the pizza last month.”

“Hey!” I protest. “That was damn good pizza, even cold. How was I supposed to know it was evidence?”

“I don’t know, maybe the evidence tag on it?” she snipes.

I start peeling Uber out. Damn, apparently she didn’t want to take any chances, we’re going to have to either cut his legs free or carry him out.

He looks up at me, around the room, then back to me. “Jello? Seriously?”

I nod. “In addition to hijacking your channel to stream this little drama live, she posted detailed how-to videos. There were a couple of mechanical bits and some sound effects, but almost all of this is gelatin mixed with varying amounts of corn syrup. Oh,” I gesture at the first ‘victim,’ “and a couple racks of ribs, plus some cow’s blood to stage the scene in Leet’s workshop.” I think it over for a minute, then idly muse, “I wonder if she’ll set up a haunted house this fall?”

He looks around the room again. “Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, and congratulations!”

“On what?” he asks tiredly.

“You just had your highest rated episode ever,” I inform him cheerfully.

--------​

O – Saturday, February 5 – 6:30 PM

I close the browser and take a moment to contemplate the events. “Your protégé is a vicious little thing. For all that she inflicted the minimum damage to capture them, it’s an experience they’ll never forget. For a moment, I was certain she was attempting to induce second triggers in both.” Glancing her way, I add, “I think Jacob would have liked to meet her.”

She shrugs. “The ones hospitalized with burns from his failed equipment? Some of her father’s men.”

“Hmm. Socially acceptable vengeance. Yes, he likely would have found that to be tedious, but the execution was still inspired. Tying it into their own ‘theme’ was a delightful touch. Ah well, I suppose we’ll never know now, will we.”

She ignores the mild chastisement. She’s distracted. Examining a plan… the plan, no doubt. “That clever girl…”

Raising an eyebrow, I ask “Oh? What did I miss?”

“She created an opportunity to fold the Tinker into the collaboration weeks ahead of schedule. The net effect puts us several days ahead.”

I frown. “You don’t think it might just be a coincidence?” At her amused look, I concede, “No, I suppose not.”

--------​

Danny Hebert – Saturday, February 5 – 6:50 PM

I watch the news report with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I deliberately sent my daughter out to convince two grown men that they were living a horror movie and then watched as she broadcast it live on the Internet. On the other, I remember visiting Terry and Vic again earlier today, seeing the bandages wrapping their arms… I force my fists to unclench.

No. Uber and Leet... They earned that. She made sure there'd only be minor injuries, that they'd be arrested for their crimes. They got what was coming to them, that's all.

I hear the door open. A moment later, Taylor drops onto the couch next to me, leaning into my side as I put an arm around her. “Welcome home, sweetie. Busy day?”

--------​

Spoiler: Author’s note

So, yeah, I did the research. Apparently you really can turn normal gelatin into substances of every density from wet mucous to ballistics gel. The facehuggers would have been the most complex ones, as they would have needed a hard candy skeleton to hang right.

Yes, she made the facehugger legs lemon flavored just for Ethan. That said, it’d likely freak him out a bit if he was aware of that fact.

I’m not sure how clear it was, but at the end, Taylor triggered the bobblehead chest bursters on both of them simultaneously (but they were actually planted in the cocoons in front of their chests). Each thought the other was dying first. Leet thought Uber was bravely pushing through the pain and making a deathbed speech. Uber thought he was distracting Leet from his own suffering, keeping him from looking down and seeing what was happening.

Spoiler: Rehosting notes

In the original version, Danny's friends were explicitly two of the "original" henches, but it didn't specify whether they were the ones who screwed up; the accident was implied to have occurred at the lair/workshop rather than on an episode. The feedback was... passionate, generally that this was a step too far since Leet and Uber seemed to be good, concerned bosses and the screwup henches should have known better. I changed about 10 words and removed any certainty of how Danny's friends had been caught up in the accident. Bystander, non-screwup hench, screwup hench, read it however you best enjoy it.

What I had wanted was to show that Danny, in the process of giving in to his temper, would let Taylor push the envelope much further than reasonable people would be comfortable with. What I ended up with was a debate on labor practices and henching.

Live and learn.

The Number Man PoV was originally going to be Lisa's. I realized that it basically boiled down to her sitting in front of her laptop and hyperventilating because she kept imagining Taylor doing that to the Undersiders. I decided that I had already alluded to her perspective on Taylor back in Part 8, so instead I flipped it over for a peek inside Cauldron.

Edit: New name designation for the Number Man: O - credit to The_Butcher over at SV for inspiring it when the subject of my naming conventions came up.

 

This was originally posted for April Fool's Day. Completely non-canon, of course, but a lot of fun to write. This has some references to the Brownie Pan omake. If you haven’t read that, it’s the last section here.

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Taylor Hebert – Saturday, March 12 – 6:10 AM

I know it’s almost done. I don’t know all the details – that still escapes me. I can, however, see the broad strokes thanks to the mental model I’ve developed around her. I understand that he has to die before he takes all the Earths with him, but I guess… As I sit here finishing breakfast, I just want to understand how all this started.

While watching the events of so many years ago, something strikes me as… off. I watch it again, scanning back even further.

Oh.

Once more to make sure.

Oh no. Oh God, she’s made an awful mistake. I need to stop this before it’s too late.

I quickly assemble a new plan. Good, I can do this today, and I’m almost positive she won’t be ready to move before I finish. God, I hope she gives me a chance to explain before…

“Dad? I’m going to be spending the day with some friends. We’ll be grabbing dinner out, but I should be back before eleven, ok?” It’s not technically heroing, and it’s certainly not in Brockton Bay, but I still feel vaguely guilty at the misdirection.

He nods, distracted by the newspaper. “Ok, sweetie, have fun. Do you need a ride anywhere?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks, Dad!” I give him a hug and dart upstairs to get dressed.

--------​

Lisa Wilbourn – Saturday, March 12 – 6:40 AM

I wake up to my phone borking at me briefly. Taylor’s ringtone. I grab it and check the message.

Kitchen emergency. Come to studio ASAP. Will have breakfast for you.​

Taylor’s kitchen studio; an “abandoned” restaurant that she actually owns through a series of holding companies. I should know, I helped with the obfuscation.

I sigh. Alright, I know she wouldn’t be dragging me out of bed if it wasn’t important, but what…? Wait, that “end of everything” she was dealing with, she didn’t say it was done. But she said that she couldn’t tell me anything about it until after, did something change?

Yes.​

…that’s still creepy as fuck.

Sorry ​

I sigh. Right, I need to grab a shower and try to wake up. I can wrap my brain around this after she feeds me.

Thanks!​

This is karmic retribution for all the times I played psychic, isn’t it.

Nope!​

I put my phone down. What’s the line from that old movie? The only way to win is not to play.

--------​

Amy Dallon – Saturday, March 12 – 6:45 AM

I groggily sit up. My phone is ringing, and a glance at the ID tells me that it’s Taylor.

“Hrmph?”

“Amy! I’m having something of a crisis and need your help.”

“Mrph.”

“I’m making cinnamon rolls and coffee.”

She’s never explicitly told me, but it’s pretty obvious that she’s Fête; there are only so many ways to combine “girl with active gemma” and “makes food with a master 0 rating.” I answer the only way I can.

“Vrgle?”

“Sure, Victoria is welcome, too.”

“Wrph?”

“There’s an old restaurant at the corner of Wilkins and Finch. I’ll pick you up in front of it.”

I hang up and throw some clothes on. I stumble out of my bedroom, up the hall, and bang on Victoria’s door. I hear a thump from the ceiling, then a few seconds later her door opens.

“Amy?” She blinks sleepily. “Too early.” She starts to close the door, but I interrupt.

“Taylor. Cinnamon rolls.”

She freezes. “Really?”

I nod and point at her balcony door. “Onward.” I frown as she reaches for me. “Clothes first.” I love my sister dearly, but she’s not very alert when she first wakes up.

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Victoria Dallon – Saturday, March 12 – 7:10 AM

I touch down with Amy in front of the blonde waiting at the corner. She looks up at me sleepily and mumbles, “Don’t make me call the Brute Squad.”

I snicker. “I’m on the Brute Squad.”

“You are the Brute Squad. Hi, Lisa Wilbourn. I’m guessing she didn’t tell you to expect anyone else either?” She reaches out to shake my hand.

“Victoria Dallon.” I shake her hand carefully. “Taylor? No idea, Amy talked to her.”

She starts to automatically reach towards Amy, then pauses.

“It’s fine, she’s mentioned you once or twice.” Amy smirks, taking her hand. “Nice to meet… Oh…”

Lisa rolls her eyes. “I’m surprised she hasn’t signed up with you, that girl has no sense about secret identities.”

“Why would she sign up with us?” I ask innocently.

Amy and Lisa both give me blank stares in return.

I continue, “I mean, have you seen the kind of ass she kicks on her own? I heard she took out Hookwolf on her first night! Just rolled into his dog fight and, bam!”

Lisa snorts. “You should have seen what she did to Coil that same weekend,” she snarks before slapping a hand over her mouth. “Fuck me, next time I’m just going with ‘Hagrid,’” she adds in a mutter.

I frown. Dennis had forwarded us both scans of the letter, but… My eyes go wide. Muffins.

Amy’s mind has apparently gone to the same place. “Oh shit, are you serious? Piggot will kill her if she ever finds out!”

Lisa hangs her head. “I know, I know. Just… don’t tell anyone?”

Any reply is cut off by the rumble of an approaching engine. There’s a car speeding up the street, a beautiful black vintage Charger. Just when it looks like it’s going to roar past, the driver executes a perfect bootlegger turn and parks in front of us.

The passenger door pops open and Taylor calls out, “Hop in ladies, we’re going on a road trip!”

“Shotgun!” I call cheerfully.

--------​

Amy Dallon – Saturday, March 12 – 7:15 AM

“Alright, I’ve got to ask. This car is gorgeous, when did you get it?” Victoria asks while nibbling on a cinnamon roll.

“This morning. Kaiser collects classic cars,” she mentions casually as we race up the ramp to the expressway. We end up airborne, then drop neatly in front of the subcompact that would have hit us if we’d been driving at normal speeds.

Lisa giggles nervously.

Victoria frowns and turns to look at our driver. “Taylor… Did you steal Kaiser’s car?”

“Yep!”

“That’s so awesome!”

“When did you get your license,” I ask cautiously as we move onto the shoulder and blow past a couple of semis that were refusing to yield.

“I didn’t, I don’t turn sixteen until June.”

“Don’t worry, you’re a natural!” Victoria reassures her.

I glance at Lisa with a feeling of impending doom. Looking at me soberly, she whispers, “Welcome to my life.”

“I’m so sorry,” I answer quietly. In a louder voice, I ask, “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Boston. I need Blasto’s help with a thing, and I’ll need you to work on it too.”

I frown. “Isn’t Blasto a villain?”

She shrugs and says, “Only for a few more hours.”

“Taylor…” I pause, trying to put together a coherent response to that. “You can’t… You can’t just make someone not be a villain.”

“She really can,” Lisa mumbles, looking out the window.

Remembering her gemma, I take a closer look at her. It clicks after a moment and my eyes go wide in realization. “You’re Tattletale!” I hiss.

Turning my way, she shrugs. “I used to be. I’m retired now.” She smirks and adds, “Taylor made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Wait,” Victoria cuts in. “Taylor, you’re the reason the Undersiders disbanded and went legit?”

“Yep!”

“You can make villains reform,” I state blandly, eyeing Tatt… Lisa warily.

“Yep!”

“How?!”

“Space whale magic!”

I look at Lisa, who shrugs, mouthing “No idea.” She offers me the thermos of coffee.

I consider her for a moment before accepting both it and her. I take a sip of… yeah, Taylor definitely made that. “Thanks.” I consider the last two minutes and try to find a way that the world might still make sense. Finally, I give in and softly ask Lisa, “Do you have any Tylenol?”

Taylor casually reaches into a bag next to her and tosses a bottle to me, all without taking her eyes off the road.

I stare at the bottle of painkillers, then look at Lisa again. There’s no way my voice carried over the roar of the engine, and I know she doesn’t have enhanced senses.

Lisa gives me a sympathetic look and shrugs again. “Like I said, welcome to my life.”

--------​

Lisa Wilbourn – Saturday, March 12 – 8:10 AM

“Oh mamma mia, mamma mia!”

“Mamma mia, let me go!”

Amy and I stare at each other in horror.

“They’re bonding,” she hisses in distress.

“How did this not happen before?” I whisper back.

“They never really talked in school. I talk to Taylor way more often, and even that’s mostly about coordinating brownie…” She trails off. Addicted to brownies. Brownies acting as substitute for…

Oh. Oh, wow. That’s really fucked up. “I’m so sorry,” I say quietly as I pat her leg consolingly.

She goes pale, then blushes furiously and looks away. After taking a minute to collect herself, she finally whispers, “It’s fine. This is much better than… than the alternative.” She shrugs and adds, “I’ll get by. I just have to get a little more exercise now.”

“Here, this’ll make you feel better.” I pull out my phone, flip to the texts Taylor has sent me, and hand it over.

She scrolls through, frowning. “Why aren’t there any messages from you?”

I roll my eyes. “Because she precogs the best possible response and sends it before I even finish thinking about whatever prompted it. Every damn time.”

“Wait, she’s a precog?”

I stare at her. “Jesus, she’s like the precog. How did you miss that?”

She shrugs. “The PRT has her rated as a mid-grade combat thinker and, like, a tinker one in food. It seemed to fit, I never really thought about it.”

I throw my head back and laugh hysterically.

--------​

Victoria Dallon – Saturday, March 12 – 8:11 AM

I glance back as Lisa bursts into laughter. I smile and lean towards Taylor. “They’re bonding,” I whisper quietly.

She glances in the mirror and nods. “Good. They can both use more friends.”

I hum in agreement before going back to looking for another good song on the radio. The copilot’s duties are a sacred trust, after all.

--------​

Amy Dallon – Saturday, March 12 – 9:30 AM

I crawl out of the car, resisting the urge to kiss the ground. Lisa drops to her knees and melodramatically hugs a lamppost.

Victoria looks around. “Alright, you say we’re here, and I’ll take your word on it. But how are we getting in?”

Taylor walks up to a brick wall and pushes aside a camouflaged panel to get at a hidden keypad, then punches in a long series of digits. After a few minutes, the segment of sidewalk parts, revealing a steel platform. As we ride the hidden elevator back down, she waggles her eyebrows. “Very Bond villain.”

Lisa snorts. “You know he’s not.”

We’re met at the bottom by a sleepy, grungy seeming man. “What…? Who…? How did…? My escape hatch…?”

“Blasto, Panacea. Panacea, Blasto. We have a project we think you’ll be very interested in, but first…” She digs through her backpack for a minute, then hands him a paper bag. “Fresh donuts.”

He stares bemusedly at the bag then looks up. “Uh… Thanks?”

I move closer, staring at his mask in fascination. “Is that alive?”

“Well, yeah… Wait. Wait. You’re Panacea!”

I nod. “Yeah. Would you mind if I took a look at that?”

He nods excitedly. “Yes, of course, please! Here, let me!” And he promptly unmasks, handing it to me. “You said there’s a project…?”

This thing is fascinating. “The way you bonded the cellular structure is brilliant, very elegant.”

He beams happily.

I hear Victoria giggling in the background, but I’m too distracted to care.

Taylor’s response is an entirely different kind of distracting. “Let me tell you how we’re going to save the world today.”

--------​

Fortuna – Saturday, March 12 – 7:30 PM

The Door opens and I step through. My attention snaps to the golden man as he follows my… Taylor around like a lost puppy. A brown haired girl and a blonde are slumped against the wall, passing a bottle back and forth. Another blonde chats happily with the Tinker, who in turn appears to be more interested in talking to her chest.

I focus on Taylor. “Explain,” I demand.

She smiles at me, draws me into a hug. “It’s good to see you again. The last few months have been very strange.”

I flinch at the implied reprimand, then hug her back. “It’s good to see you, too. But please, for now, explain.”

We both briefly turn our attention to the golden man and watch as he waves his hand in front of his face, tracking it back and forth in amazement.

“You misread the situation,” she states plainly as she disassembles a pistol.

“How so?” I frown, checking my holster. Damn it. I’m impressed in spite of myself; quick, simple, efficient. She’s grown adept at working with our agent.

“You’re from a more… agrarian society, correct?” she asks, setting the pieces of my disassembled pistol on a nearby table.

I nod, prompting her to continue. The golden man giggles insipidly.

“You missed some of the signs. Things that would be more apparent to people from a post-industrial society, especially urban centers.”

Frowning, I ask, “What signs?”

She gestures at the golden man. He attempts to reach out to touch her hand and misses. “You thought they were a mated pair.”

I nod again. “Yes…?”

She shakes her head. “She was his dealer. He was her enforcer. She was turning worlds into… into… multiuniversal meth labs, basically. When one was burnt out, she’d finish destroying it and they’d move on.”

“What.”

“He’s hopelessly addicted. He’s essentially been chemically lobotomized, programmed to follow the directives of whoever provides his fix, and he hasn’t had any in thirty years.” She pauses, then clarifies, “He wasn’t destroying the world out of malice, he was doing it in the throes of withdrawal.”

“QUERY. MUNCHIES.”

She smiles and pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, the next batch is almost done. Once we get the assembly line going, you’ll be golden.” She pauses, blushing. “Er… You’ll be all set.”

I sit next to the two girls. Wordlessly, the blonde offers the bottle to me. I nod my thanks and drink deeply.

Thirty years. Thirty years of… I sigh. “They’re never going to let me live this down.”

--------​

Spoiler

Happy April Fool’s Day!

 

Colin Wallis – Saturday, February 19 – 9:30 PM

Getting blindsided by Squealer could only be more humiliating if she hadn’t developed a cloaking device for that damn truck.

I’d been running a late patrol after a long day of working on the project. It should have been a simple run – putting in an appearance, addressing any incidental situations as they arose. Dragon and I had been in the midst of making plans for the next piece; she must have caught something on my sensors an instant before the shot struck home because she’d started to call out a warning.

The shot detonated the secondary fuel reserve of my motorcycle; had I not already been in the process of jumping clear, I’d have likely lost the leg. As it is, I won’t be walking unassisted any time soon. I can only stand now thanks to locking the armor around it, and that took significant damage as well.

Worse, the shrapnel has damaged my halberd. While it’s still a dangerous melee weapon, it’s only a dangerous melee weapon.

Both motorcycle and halberd obviously suffer from the same fundamental flaw; I’ve sacrificed too much basic durability, too much structural integrity, in favor of incorporating additional functionality. My motorcycle will likely need to be redesigned from the ground up, while my halberd will require further consideration. Many of the features are too important to sacrifice, but obviously I need to prioritize. Or perhaps a modular system, a base level of functionality augmented by situationally useful add-ons…

I set aside any design ideas for the moment. I’m injured, essentially unarmed, and my motorcycle is a flaming wreck. I have serious concerns about the results of its powerplant overheating. Even if it doesn’t go up, I absolutely cannot leave it here for Squealer to scavenge.

Worse, communications have been blocked; Dragon will have placed a call for reinforcements on my behalf, but they’ll be coming in blind. Assuming I manage to hold out that long in the first place.

Oh, and of course Oni Lee arrived shortly after the start of the fight, because turning this into a three way battle will obviously be a vast improvement to my chances of surviving the evening.

Oni Lee has the advantage of mobility. Squealer has her… whatever that cannon is. I’m essentially pinned down, sheltering in a stairwell. The only reason I’m not already dead is that they’re spending more time fighting each other than taking shots at me.

Just when I think things can’t get any worse, that idiot girl arrives. Fête, currently rated at Thinker 2, Tinker 1. Not a real Tinker of course, the rating is just a warning against any props she may have… baked. She’s little better than those B-list villains she caught two weeks ago; all theatricality and show. Since that capture, she’s gone on to start a cooking podcast.

Her initial success against Hookwolf has obviously gone to her head, as there’s no way she’s ready for this kind of fight. What the hell is she going to do with a bucket, anyway? Apparently nothing; she drops it at the side of the road and…

Of all the amateur hour idiocy, why is she doing a handspring towards my motorcycle? Wait… Oni Lee obviously hasn’t noticed the new arrival yet, as he teleports directly into her path while facing Squealer’s truck. While he was already reaching for a grenade, Fête was perfectly positioned to convert the handspring into a mule kick. He’s sent tumbling into the wreckage. She immediately leaps on top of him, driving the air from his lungs and incidentally using him to shield herself from the flames.

She kicks open one of my saddlebags, grabs two confoam grenades, and immediately drops one on my motorcycle while tossing the other into the air. The Lee beneath her disintegrates into ash but she tumbles flawlessly, kicking the second grenade as it comes down.

From my sheltered position, I’m able to use my visor to track it as it flies. The grenade ricochets off a building and continues across a narrow alley before striking the ledge of another building. Just as it begins falling, it rebounds off an awning that sends it arcing towards Squealer. As she rotates the cannon to take a shot at Lee, now standing on one of the rooftops, the grenade neatly drops down the barrel. The foam releases just before she fires; the cannon makes a sad belching noise as it blows itself off the truck. The cursing is audible from here.

At the same time, the grenade on my motorcycle goes off. The flames are doused instantly even as the foam binds the wreck to the decorative concrete posts of an adjacent building.

Just as I realize I’ve lost track of her, Fête comes casually strolling out from behind Squealer’s truck. Seconds later, the engine starts making a horrific grinding noise. The cursing grows louder as some kind of pink substance begins rapidly filling the cab; just after it’s filled to capacity, the engine grinds to a halt, smoking angrily.

As she walks back to the bucket she dropped earlier, I feel compelled to verify my hypothesis. “That’s cotton candy, isn’t it.” At her nod, I continue. “How did you get a tinkertech engine of unknown design, one that was almost certainly not meant for the purpose, to spin sugar into cotton candy?”

She shrugs, tossing the bucket into the air. Oni Lee teleports behind her, knife drawn and ready to strike. The instant he appears, though, the bucket drops over his head, temporarily blinding him. Whatever was in it seems to have adhered to his mask and head; while he struggles to remove the bucket, she applies a wristlock and disarms him. She follows up by sweeping his legs and kicking him twice in the solar plexus to reduce his struggles. She finally gets behind him and applies a sleeper hold.

While binding the unconscious man with zip ties, she smiles up at me. In a mischievous tone, she finally answers my question, “Talent.”

Cannon neutralized; stealth truck neutralized; Squealer captured. Oni Lee captured. Risk of meltdown neutralized; motorcycle secured. Elapsed time, thirty seconds.

Thinker 2 my ass.

I eye her appraisingly. It’s blindingly obvious now that the theatricality is a deliberate misdirection. She’s selling a friendly, harmless package, understating her capabilities. I don’t think Imaging could have done it any better; I certainly fell for it. Many would have balked at the food association, but she’s taken something that should have been her greatest weakness and leveraged it into a devastatingly effective tool.

I’m suddenly struck with the image of her using my motorcycle’s powerplant to make s’mores. I shudder.

Wait, tools… She brought only what was needed for this fight; she came out here specifically to rescue me. There’s only one thing I can say to that. “Thank you.”

She smiles, much more sincerely this time. “You’re welcome. I called it in before getting into the jammer’s range, but…” Without looking, she casually throws a knife – the one Oni Lee dropped – at the truck, hitting a small protrusion. With a hissing pop, my comms come back online. I don’t even question it at this point.

“Repeating: Console to Armsmaster. Dragon and Fête both reported that you’re under fire. Fête was last reported as moving to engage, reinforcements are inbound. What is your status? Over.”

“Armsmaster to Console. Fête successfully engaged Squealer and Oni Lee; both are down at her hands. My left femur is broken and I have experienced chemical burns across much of my left leg. I was able to apply a neutralizing agent and bind the leg, but will require medical assistance. Additionally, send a flatbed for my motorcycle and a heavy tow truck for Squealer’s… vehicle. Over.”

“Incoming,” Fête murmurs. Seconds later, someone starts clapping.

Night, with Fog only a few steps behind her.

Fête slowly walks in front of me, blocking my… No, blocking their line of sight on me, buying me a few seconds. I subvocalize, “Enemy capes on site, Night and Fog approaching. Stand by.”

As if on cue, she finishes moving past me, never breaking stride. She starts fidgeting with her jacket, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see the hand closest to me, the one not visible to them, indicating ‘you lead’ in standard PRT combat sign. I wonder where she… Ah, of course. Even more versatile than I’d guessed; combat communications. I briefly wonder if there's any language she couldn't speak at need during combat.

I regret every unflattering thing I thought about her. While I still wouldn’t want to take her into a combat situation, that’s now solely due to her age. If she’s able to apply her power remotely, she’d be a tremendous boon even on console duty. The strike against the Nine definitively proved that proper Thinker support can lead to a successful mission against opponents that many would consider unbeatable.

Still, best to address the current situation first. If possible, I want to try to avoid another fight; I’m a liability at this stage, and she doesn’t seem to be equipped for facing them. “Night. Fog. What brings you back from Boston?”

A message pops up on my visor; Dragon.

Glad to see you’re back online.
Reinforcements en route, eta 6 minutes.
Reviewing stored footage now.​

Fog stands patiently, hands folded behind his back, as Night answers for both of them. “Oh, we’re just visiting for a few days. It gets a bit stuffy staying indoors all the time – you understand, I’m sure – so we decided to go out for a nice stroll through some of our favorite parts of the city. When we came upon this spectacle, we simply had to stop and watch for a few minutes. Why, we never imagined it would come to such a swift and dramatic conclusion!” Focusing her attention directly on Fête, she adds, “The way you showed your lessers their place was magnificent, my dear.”

For the first time tonight, I see a crack in Fête’s facade. Apparently she finds their appreciation to be disconcerting. It's there and gone in an instant, though, then she nods and offers a polite, “Thank you.”

“Of course! Oh, and I had so been hoping for a chance to meet you. It’s always nice to see the younger generation taking an interest in proper domestic skills; so few do, these days. Purity introduced me to your show, and I very much enjoy it. Why, it even inspired me to change up our normal routine! The Crêpes Suzette were just as delicious and easy to prepare as you had indicated!” She smiles… strangely. It’s as if she’s attempting a demure smile but isn’t very clear on what a smile is. “If it wouldn’t be an imposition, may I please have your autograph?”

5 minutes. Finished the video.
That’s the new Thinker you were calling unprofessional?
We need to talk about your unreasonable standards…​

I flinch at the reminder of how badly I misjudged her. The girl apparently catches the motion and quickly glances towards me. Making the most of the moment, I act as if I’m adjusting the armor bracing my injured leg and give her the signal to hold steady. They don’t seem to be looking for a fight, best to keep it that way.

She refocuses her attention on the other cape. “Of course, I’d be delighted! Shall I just make it out to ‘Night,’ then?”

“Yes, please.” She winks, and adds, “I can always ask for another one should I encounter you out of costume.” Fête freezes for a split second, as if she’s unsure which of them would be out of costume in that scenario. In fairness, I don’t think it was meant as a threat, in spite of the vague phrasing. Regardless, she again recovers smoothly and pulls a small notepad and pen from a pouch.

While waiting, Night casually asks, “Your chosen name is French, isn’t it, dear? Is that where your family is from?”

The girl answers cautiously, “In part, a few generations back, yes.”

“And the other parts?” the older cape asks with a strange intensity. Is she really going to attempt a recruitment pitch right in front of me?

4 minutes.
I truly hope the poor girl’s first autograph isn’t going to a villain. Talk about setting a bad precedent…​

Fête finishes writing and signs her name with a flourish. “A bit of a mix, really. English, German, Austrian.”

Accepting the signed paper with a smile, Night idly mentions, “Kaiser has a son about your age. A sweet boy, though the poor thing hasn’t come into his power yet. Still, it’s only a matter of time. There could be opportunity there for a talented girl of suitable breeding.”

...well, isn’t that disturbing.​

That… I don’t think I’ve heard of the Empire attempting matchmaking with new capes before, though I suppose this would qualify as more of a eugenics program.

I get a brief impression that the girl is horrified at the implications. In spite of that, she hums thoughtfully and merely says, “That’s certainly something to keep in mind. Still, I’d be concerned that there may be hard feelings over my altercation with Hookwolf…”

“That brute?” Something about the way she says it makes it clear she’s using the traditional meaning. She shrugs. “Of course not, dearie. While there are always uses for men like that, there are always more waiting to take their place. Stormtiger will have assumed control of their cell by now.” She puts on that artificial smile again before adding, “I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“Thank you, I’m… glad.” She pauses, frowning. “Still, you said ‘will have,’ are you no longer in contact with them at all?”

3 minutes.
Nice catch.
I’m getting a report ready for Narwhal; if you don’t get her into the Wards, the Guild will happily poach her out of your backyard once she’s of age.​

I grit my teeth. She might be teasing, but that doesn’t mean she won’t do it. Still, we have a few years to convince her to join.

“We’re on something of a sabbatical at the moment, dear. It’s not polite to gossip,” she whispers conspiratorially, “but Purity and Kaiser had a bit of a tiff, and we’re taking a bit of time for ourselves until they make up.” She shakes her head in sympathy, though it seems false. “The poor thing, she’s been running herself ragged these last few months between her normal job, her baby, and trying to play hero…” She trails off briefly before shrugging. “No matter, I’m sure they’ll resolve their issues soon enough. It’s what’s best for the children, they just need to realize it.” She titters. It’s an alien, unfeeling sound.

“Yes, of course.” She hesitates, as if deciding whether to prolong the conversation. “Will you be coming back to stay once they do?”

“Of course, dearie,” she replies cheerfully. She glances towards her partner and nods. “Well, I’m afraid we must be off. It was lovely to meet you.” She turns to me, gives a respectful nod. “Armsmaster.”

2 minutes.
Cross-checking incidents involving Purity over the last year.
Preliminary analysis suggests it checks out; ABB and Merchant activity only, no civilian incidents in months.​

We’ll have to find a way to reach Purity. If she’s willing to turn herself in, to rebrand and commit to a probationary term, it might be possible to arrange something. Obviously not in Brockton Bay; conflicted loyalties aside, she’s too well known locally.

As they're walking away, Night pauses. “Oh, and if I might be so bold? You should consider featuring some German dishes on your show.” She smiles again and turns back. “Don’t stay out too late! Young ladies need their beauty sleep!”

We wait in silence for them to depart. I keep an eye on my sensors in case they double back, but they truly seem to be leaving.

The first thing I do is report the update; no reason for the reinforcements to come in hot. “Armsmaster to Console. Enemy capes have departed without hostile action. No other changes to situation. Over.”

“Console to Armsmaster. Understood. Reinforcements less than a minute away. Over.”

Meanwhile, Fête murmurs, seemingly to herself, “Well, I had been planning to do German Black Forest Cake tomorrow, but I think I’ll do something else instead. I do not need to be sending them mixed signals. Maybe baklava.”

I smile and attempt to reassure her with a simple compliment. “You handled that entire situation very well.”

She shivers. “Thank you. That was… tense.” She thinks it over for a minute. “Was it just me, or did she seem wrong somehow? Stereotypical 50’s housewife by way of serial killer?”

I nod. “There’s not much known about her or her partner, but there’s some speculation that they may be sociopaths.” I pause, then add, “The record of this encounter will help fill out her profile. The rest of the information she let slip will also be valuable.”

PRT vans begin pulling up; Assault steps out of one. “Hey, hey, if it isn’t the queen of kitchen carnage herself!”

She smirks back at him. “Sorry, no lemon candy this time.”

“Aw, no treats? Where’s the love?”

Battery steps out of the same van and nudges him. “Behave.”

One of the agents checks Oni Lee’s pulse. After a moment, he nods and steps back, allowing his partner to foam the prisoner – bucket still in place. Assault notices and stifles a laugh.

“I didn’t say there were no treats. There’s cotton candy in the truck over there, but I suppose there is a Squealer in the middle of it. There’s also molasses in the bucket Oni Lee is wearing, but I wouldn’t recommend trying it.” She glances towards Lee, then adds, “Never mind, definitely can’t try it now.”

Battery frowns at the truck, clearly trying to determine the best way to extract the prisoner. “I’m not sure if this is better or worse than peeling Uber and Leet out of Jello molds.”

Fête surreptitiously checks her phone, then looks towards me. “Do you need me to give a statement or anything? I need to get home soon.”

Assault begins tapping his foot and asks in a tone of mock seriousness, “Young lady, does your father know where you are?”

“Uh… Yeah?” She frowns as if the question doesn’t make sense.

Battery stops her inspection of the truck. “Seriously?”

“Of course. He acts as, uh, mission control, basically. Any time I go out heroing, I outline my plans; if something comes up, we discuss it in detail before deciding how I should proceed. For big things, like the Hookwolf fight, I won’t go without his approval.”

Colin, if that’s true…​

I nod subtly. Some questions had been raised about both how she was selecting her targets and the viciousness of her takedowns. Beyond that, a parent allowing their child to go out and fight Hookwolf, no matter how capable she might be? The situation with Uber and Leet, even this evening’s fight… If she’s being honest – and there’s every indication that she is – then it’s likely she doesn’t fully grasp the severity of her actions. Her father, on the other hand…

Assault runs with it. “Aw, man. I was hoping that we could sell him on the Wards, get you to keep us stocked on goodies.”

Snickering, she counters with, “If it’s snacks you want, I could drop off a care package a couple times a week.”

I cut in, asking, “On the subject of the Wards, have you considered signing up?”

In an instant, any rapport we established is gone, as is the confident young hero. “No. I mean, yeah. We talked about it. No. I… I can’t. Not now. Not yet.” She looks away. “If you don’t need me, I… I should go. I’ll, uh… see you around?” She walks away.

At Battery’s look, I shake my head. “Let her go. That was my misstep. She’d handled everything so well this far, seemed so relaxed, I forgot how new she is. With the implications about her father…”

“No harm, no foul, boss,” Assault remarks. “Next time one of us has the chance to talk to her, though, we should make sure that she’s not still stuck with whatever that last bit was about. Something tells me it's not the Wards she's afraid of.”

“Agreed.” I sigh. It was a foolish mistake on my part. Instead of putting her on the spot regarding membership, I should have only mentioned it in passing, given her a chance to guide the flow of the conversation. Truth be told, Assault had already been successfully handling it before I stepped in. I know part of it was concern about her father essentially weaponizing her; that’s one of many scenarios the Wards program is meant to address.

But I’m also honest enough with myself to know that part of it was just eagerness to have such a capable fighter on my team. Counting tonight, she’s got more captures to her name in the last month than we have in the last six, and that’s including the Director’s confrontation with Coil. That's not even factoring in any incidental street crime she may have been stopping.

If anyone had told me ten minutes ago that I’d be chafing to get Fête into the Wards program, I’d have laughed. Now… Now I just have to hope I haven’t ruined any chance of that happening.

Assault’s attention wanders back to the truck. “Think the cotton candy is any good?”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t recommend trying it. She somehow got Squealer’s engine to produce it.”

Battery takes a cautious step back from it. “In that case, we should probably call in a hazmat team.”

As the EMTs arrive with a reinforced stretcher for me, I nod to her. “I’ll leave it in your hands.”

--------​

Spoiler: Author’s notes

Lots of remarks this time. I’m breaking them down into sections for better clarity.

Spoiler: Setting the scene

The setup for this chapter is a sort of inverse “for want of a nail.” Because of the “project,” Armsmaster is running patrol later and on a different route than he would have in canon. Had he not been there, Squealer would have simply been out on a joy/test ride; since he was there, she decided to take a potshot at him, not expecting to actually connect and essentially one shot him. The unplanned ambush was taking place at the edge of ABB territory, and very quickly drew the attention of Oni Lee.

Or, tl;dr: Everyone was in the wrong place at the wrong time and doing the wrong thing.

Spoiler: Night and Fog

Night and Fog basically showed up just to make everyone really uncomfortable and awkward. Also, because butterflies.

Oh, look, Taylor! Your show is improving the lives of sociopaths who otherwise took their acting cues from Leave It to Beaver. Isn’t it wonderful to know you’re making a difference?

Jokes aside, while Taylor could have fought Night and Fog, the side effects would have included Armsmaster being critically injured. As such, the best “win” condition she could achieve at that specific time/place was not engaging them since they weren’t already hostile.

Well, not engaging them physically, anyway. Social combat, on the other hand…

Spoiler: Objectives and perspective

Because the question will come up: The only difference Taylor’s arrival actually made was the capture of the villains. Night and Fog wouldn’t have made their presence known if she wasn’t there. Oni Lee and Squealer were too focused on each other to care much about Armsmaster; once the reinforcements arrived, both would have pulled back.

From Armsmaster’s perspective, Taylor specifically came out to save his life and he’s trying to thank her for that in his own way. From Taylor’s perspective, she only came out to capture two villains who otherwise would have escaped, and she assumes the gratitude is for that. That’s why she’s so casual about it, while he’s all gung ho to recruit.

PtM: Armsmaster is both impressed and grateful.
Taylor: That’s cool.

Contessa, in turn, never really noticed it happening at all because his work on the project will only improve from here – being on medical leave from his normal duties gives him more time to work on the super secret ones.

Taylor stopped pathing the conversation after Night & Fog left. She also wasn’t trying to throw Danny under the bus, it’s just that the simple reality of their situation looks really bad from an outside perspective. There’s not really a good way to tell the superheroes “Sure, I told my dad everything I was going to do in detail before he let me go out – he wouldn’t have let me if I hadn’t.”

In the category of “butterflies whose effects will likely never be plot relevant,” Armsmaster’s idea of implementing a modular system for his halberd will obviously change things for Chris. This will lead both of them to have significantly greater facepalm moments than in canon, but will probably improve their relationship overall.

Spoiler: Rehosting notes

This is it, the last published chapter. I plan to have a new part up either tonight or tomorrow morning, the last major part for this story. There's also an interlude and an epilogue to go. No worries, though, the omake bin is overflowing for this one.

 

Spoiler: Preface

Fair warning: Like the previous end of arc chapters, this is a thinking/talking/reflecting chapter rather than a big action segment. There’s been a lot going on in the background, and a lot of that is getting explained now; other parts are only being discovered for the first time. This is also, in its entirety, set in the midst of part 9.

Relevant dates/events as a reminder:

January 19 – Slaughterhouse Nine takedown. Taylor first gets (seriously) suspicious.

January 21 – While picking Lisa’s brain on Jack Slash, Taylor learns about trigger events.

January 24 – Simurgh victim detection announcement; Taylor drops all her conclusions on Lisa as trollishly as possible.

January 31 – Manton interview.

February 2 – Nilbog’s Bogus Journey.

February 4 – Taylor scares the snot out of Lisa.

February 5 – Taylor scares the snot out of Uber and Leet.

--------​

Danny Hebert – Wednesday, January 19 – 6:50 PM

“I think Ms. Romano gave me superpowers for Christmas.”

I set my fork down; it’s going to be one of those conversations. I was almost done anyway. “Honey, I’m sure that made sense inside your head, but you’re going to have to give your old man some context.”

“Alright, so she could speak, like, any language you can think of, right?”

“I’ll take your word on it, but how does that relate?” I’m missing something here, as usual.

Taylor stares at me blankly before the metaphorical light bulb goes on. “Oh, I never told you…”

Definitely one of those conversations. I look at her expectantly.

“Languages.” At my continued look, she tries again with, “I speak them.”

“Fluently,” I snipe.

“Dad…” She rolls her eyes at the cheap joke. “I mean, I can use my power to speak any language. It’s like a combination of the know things and do things parts.”

I think that over briefly. “Alright, I guess I can see how that would work.” I frown. “Wait, you’re saying that…”

“I think Ms. Romano was doing the same thing. I think she somehow gave me her powers, or a copy of them, or a variation. Like New Wave.”

Now it clicks. “Ok, I can see where you’re coming from, but do you have more to go on than her being a polyglot…” I trail off thoughtfully. Frowning, I add, “And being invisible to your power. Ok, I’m not sold yet, but you may be onto something as far as her being a cape.”

“Exactly!” she exclaims while nodding enthusiastically. “The more you look at it, the more sense it starts to make.”

“What about the kidnapping? Are you saying it was staged or did something happen?”

She blushes, plays with her salad for a minute. “I think… The whole kidnapping thing, the way it got the police and the school district to dig into everything…?”

I slump in my chair. And she complained about Coil’s Machiavellian tendencies. “You think it was, what, some kind of deliberate ploy to bring your situation to light?”

“Yeah, a graduation gift of sorts, opportunity rather than a full solution. That’s something else she said, ‘Opportunity is a priceless gift, always make the most of it.’”

I refrain from pointing out that, if she does have a power like Taylor’s, she had the opportunity to end the entire situation months earlier. “Ok, so she set up a fake kidnapping to give you your chance. How did she manage to disappear… No, never mind, if she’s a cape, she could have access to a lot of different ways to get out of a school unseen.”

Nodding, she says, “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Here’s the next thing – the attack on the Nine was coordinated by a Thinker, right?”

“Sure, I heard something about that. She made some kind of plan…” Oh. “Let me guess – she’s invisible to your power too?”

“Yep. It’s not just her, though. I can’t see anything about her plan, how she did it, who she worked with, what she told them to do. Basically, anything she had a direct hand in, or influence beyond some threshold.”

“That’s…” I try to read her expression, make a guess. “That must be frustrating.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the point. I tried looking back at fall semester to see if there was anything similar, and there is. There are big chunks I can’t see through my power. The same kind of ‘nothing here’ block.”

“Alright, that’s pretty compelling. At the very least, it suggests that there’s a link of some kind. So you think the plan was to give you access to her power?”

“I think that was one of her goals.” She smiles wistfully. “She was always encouraging me to consider my actions carefully, to accomplish the most from the least effort. ‘Why settle for achieving one goal when you can achieve three?’”

The more I hear about this woman, the less I trust her. These are not the lessons you would expect a librarian to teach. “Alright, so what else do you think she was trying to do?”

She sighs. “I don’t know. I think she was probably doing something specific that had her in Winslow, or at least in Brockton Bay. I think giving me her power was probably opportunistic, something she didn’t decide on until after meeting me. The kidnapping would have been built off that, probably didn’t get planned until relatively late.”

“Alright, so three options, then. First, that there are two people who are both invisible to you. Second, that there’s a normal person working for the invisible person and causing the effect to spread between them. Third, that there’s only one invisible person acting in multiple roles.” I stop, looking for the words. “Is there anything that wouldn’t fit if they were both the same person?”

“The message.”

I nod sagely. “Of course. The message. I can see how that would confuse matters.”

She blushes. “Sorry. I think she had MP send me a message.”

“MP?” I can’t think of who MP is off the top of my head, someone at school?

She slaps a hand over her mouth. Not the reaction I was expecting.

“Something you want to share?”

She fidgets for a minute before confessing, “Mouse Protector. I’ve spent so much time going through the pie plans that I finally got curious about what it would’ve been like to be her sidekick. She always asks me to call her MP.”

“Alright, I… Uh…” How do you even deal with a problem like ‘My precognitive daughter is losing track of the conversations she’s actually had versus the ones she could have had?’ ...without making her sound delusional. “Right, so Mouse Protector, what, contacted you with a message?”

“Sort of. I think Ms. Romano pulled a Coil.”

I sigh resignedly.

Getting the point, she clarifies, “I think she did something similar to what I did with Coil. A chain of circumstances that prompted MP to say a specific thing during the press conference ‘...her power was tailor made…’”

“Wait, I thought you said she gave you her power. But the message was that you gave her your power?”

“Right, that’s why I’m confused.”

“That makes two of us.” I sigh, run a hand through my hair. As always, that vague surprise that there’s not as much there as there used to be. “Was that the whole message?”

“The full quote is, ‘It’s like her power was tailor made to coordinate heroes against major threats.’”

I frown. “That actually changes the meaning a lot. I can see at least two… No, three possible messages from that.” I hesitate before adding, “I wish your mother was here. She could do that kind of interpretation in her sleep.”

She gives me a sad smile, but presses on. “Right, the first one is the literal. But a second… Wait, you think she’s saying that something about me is allowing her to coordinate heroes now?”

“‘Taylor made it possible’ rather than ‘Taylor made it.’ A hint that something changed, maybe when her power, uh, spread to you?” I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t really know much about powers to begin with, and I’m not sure anyone understands the details of situations like New Wave’s. I mean, I’d assumed it was a family thing, but…” I trail off, shrugging again.

“But how does that make sense? Why would giving me her power let her do more with it?” She frowns, then adds, “But yeah, that would make sense as her primary goal. If she needed to spread her power to someone to do… something…”

“Not anything I can even venture a guess on. But honestly, I’m more concerned with the third message.”

“‘…major threats.’ A warning, layered in an acknowledgment, hidden in someone else’s statement. God, that’s so like her.”

“Yeah, that was the impression I got.” Not a particularly good impression. I keep trying and failing to not draw comparisons between Romano and Coil. “So, what threats could she be warning you about? Something so far beyond the Nine that she can use their takedown to get the message to you?” Belatedly, it occurs to me. I can see it in Taylor’s eyes as well.

Endbringers.

She takes another bite of salad. “Checking now.”

Jesus. How have neither of us thought of this? I guess the answer is obvious, the Endbringers aren’t something that most people want to think about. But now? Imagining someone with a power like Taylor’s, coordinating against an Endbringer attack… She wouldn’t even have to be on site, she could do the whole thing remotely. It’s almost enough to give you hope that…

“Uh… Dad? There’s something weird.”

I sigh. Too much to hope for, I guess. “It’s alright. I didn’t want to say anything to dissuade you, but it’s pretty well known that nobody can predict them.”

“No, that’s the thing. There are no attacks. I can tell you where they are, watch them, but they’re… Idle. Inert. Like someone hit an off switch. No attacks in the next six months at a minimum. They’re just… there.”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Friday, January 21 – 9:30 PM

Alright, so Ms. Romano… What, primed me for her power and waited for me to trigger? Then made it so I wouldn’t remember triggering? I guess it never really occurred to me that there might be something more to getting powers, I just woke up one night and suddenly, cookies.

Still, watching Lisa, I could tell how much her brother’s death was still tearing her up as soon as she thought of it. When you look at it like that, Ms. Romano really did me a favor. I’m glad I don’t remember my trigger.

Well, beyond what Greg told me about that morning, anyway. Good luck picking any meaningful detail out of that stream of consciousness.

No, I’ve already got enough trauma from everything Emma did. I don’t need an extra serving.

--------​

Lisa Wilbourn – Monday, January 24 – 7:50 PM

“Alright, that’s some pretty compelling logic. I mean, based on that, yeah, I think you’re right. I think your librarian is the one doing all of this now.” Also, that she’s terrifying as hell, because she clearly has something that can pass as Taylor’s power and has absolutely no fucks to give about anyone, except maybe Taylor. Maybe. I mean, Jesus, what kind of fucked up person gets that close to someone and then sits around waiting for her to trigger?

She smiles, sipping her tea. “Thanks, it’s good to get another confirmation on it. Any guesses on what this threat might be?”

I snort. “If you’d asked me 10 minutes ago, I’d have guessed the same as you did. Now…” I throw my arms up. “I’ve got nothing.” I frown, thinking it over for a moment. “You said that the reason they stopped is also tied to her? Same missing info?”

“Yeah, but that still doesn’t get me anywhere. I mean, it basically comes back to her not doing anything, then something changes and suddenly 2011 is the year for kicking ass.” She gives a wry grin. “The funny thing is she shut them down back on the 9th. I was recovering from an all night baking binge and she was ending the Endbringers.”

I’m not nearly that optimistic; she didn’t end them, she just hibernated them. I’m half expecting some Grand Guignol with them later. “I’m not sure what to tell you or what could have changed. I mean, there are only a few things that are known to permanently affect powers. Certain Trumps, but it seems unlikely she was at Winslow to meet one, and second triggers, which are ridiculously rare and not really something most people want to happen.”

She sighs and snarks tiredly, “Let me guess, doubling down on the trauma?”

I stifle a laugh. “Close enough. Narwhal is the best known example. There aren’t enough to be statistically significant yet, but so far it seems like second triggers leave you even more fucked up than the original.”

She shakes her head. “Yeah, no, that doesn’t sound like something she’d go for. The stakes would have to be… I don’t know, inconceivably high.”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Monday, January 31 – 7:50 PM

Manton is part of her plan, somehow. I can’t see why she’s allowing him to live, in either sense. I can’t see how she’s controlling him – and she has to be controlling him somehow. I can see almost everything about who he is, what he’s done. He would never be doing this of his own volition. But before his power…

Before that, there are also gaps. I can see bits and pieces of his life, but huge swathes are inaccessible. He has to have been working for her, been part of her plans before. Until, somehow, he wasn’t. Maybe something he was doing caused him to trigger and that’s when he went crazy?

I can’t tell anyone. I have to assume that there’s a reason for this, and that turning him back into a fugitive or getting him killed would probably be counterproductive.

But there had better be a damn good reason for letting the Siberian run free. After seeing everything he’s done, everything he’s enjoyed doing… After watching first hand as he killed Hero, his friend, what I really want to do is feed that fucker his own entrails and watch him die slowly.

...which works. Ew. I guess the definition of food can be kind of liberal. Right, so I guess I have a backup… plan…

Is that it? Am I an offsite backup? Is she more able to act now because I’m available if something goes wrong? That might be sensible if I knew what the hell she was doing.

No, that doesn’t feel right. If I was really some kind of emergency backup, she’d have secured me somewhere, made sure I was safe. Beyond that, she wouldn’t have left me with no information, no idea how to go about preparing for this threat. No, if I was the backup, she’d have me actively working on alternatives, failsafes.

I’m missing something, that much I’m sure of. She always taught me to find the answers for myself, not to let anyone spoon feed them to me. Research is fine, consulting specialists can be essential, but I should reach my own conclusions. Which is great, only I have no starting point, no way to begin analysing the problem.

But since she waved the problem in my face with that message, it means there’s got to be a way to figure this out and I’m just not seeing it.

Damn it.

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Wednesday, February 2 – 6:40 PM

There’s way too much going on, and it’s obviously pretty damn big. It’s like they’re doing housekeeping, running down a list of problems and saying, “Yep, we should fix this one now, but that one will need to wait for later.”

I can’t keep going in ignorance, I need to figure out what she’s doing before I finish eating dinner.

<<error: channel isolation in effect>>

There’s got to be a way around that… Nothingness. I wonder… I need to figure out a way to work around this blocked information before I finish eating dinner.

<<error: channel isolation in effect>>

Right, too much to hope for. After weeks of being able to figure out anything, this… this… lack of knowledge is just pissing me off.

I take a bite of lasagna and force myself to relax. As I chew, I think about what it is I’m trying to accomplish here. It’s not fair, I just want to understand what’s going on so I know how to react.

…

Oh, what the fuck, seriously? I just needed to not invoke her or the block directly? Really? It’s like a half-assed security program blocking access to a site by its primary hostname but not by an alias.

I smile at Dad. “Got it. It’s kind of weird, though. Hazy, like I’m trying to look at something out of the corner of my eye instead of looking directly at it. Give me a minute to…” I trail off in horror.

I stand suddenly, knocking over the chair behind me. I turn and run for the bathroom.

I hear Dad, obviously worried, call out behind me, “Taylor…? Taylor…!”

He catches up to me. Holds my hair, rubs my back soothingly. He waits until I finish rinsing my mouth to ask the question I’m dreading.

--------​

Daniel Hebert – Wednesday, February 2 – 6:50 PM

I’ve never seen Taylor react so strongly to anything she’s found with her power. I can’t imagine what could possibly provoke this kind of reaction. “What is it that she’s doing?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you.”

I sigh. “It’s alright. Just take your time and sort it out. I can wait.”

Still shaking her head, she repeats, “No, I can’t tell you. If I tell you, we die.”

My blood runs cold. “She’d kill you… kill us, to protect this secret…?”

Her laughter is bitter, broken. It’s not a sound I like hearing from her. “No. If I tell you, everyone dies.”

“Taylor…”

“No, you’re not understanding. Everyone, everywhere. All of humanity across all the parallel Earths. That’s what she’s trying to stop. I can not tell you. If I tell you, it starts.”

Jesus. Just… Jesus fucking Christ.

I’m not sure how long I stand there, staring into space. When I hear her sniffle, though, I react automatically, pulling her into my arms.

“I’m scared.”

“It’ll be alright, sweetie.” I hope to God I’m not lying. “I’m sure Ms. Romano has a plan…”

She shakes her head. “It’s… not a sure thing, but I can’t tell you much about why. It… The information creates noise, sort of. The more people who know, the more it gets talked about, the greater the chance of it happening. But acting against it also creates a certain level of noise. They’ve… They need time, now. They’re so close. That’s why the Nine, Nilbog… Preliminary steps to stabilize things, I think, for after. Acting or not acting no longer made a difference there, so they acted at their very first opportunity.”

That’s… Both horrifying and reassuring. The Nine have been around almost as long as powers. To think that they’d been allowed to exist solely because there was something worse waiting behind them, something that could’ve taken note of their absence… But knowing that as soon as they could, they immediately took steps…? That speaks to better intentions than I’d come to expect of Romano. But on that subject, “They?”

“She’s working with… a very diverse group,” she trails off, obviously frustrated at having to dance around the topic. “Among others, she’s working directly with the Triumvirate. Has been since the beginning. They… The Triumvirate, the PRT, the Protectorate… There have always been a select handful of people who knew, at least broadly, what was coming. This is… This is something they’ve been working towards for decades.”

Decades working behind the scenes, trying to stop the end of the world, and all without being able to tell people how or why. Alright, I think I can at least understand some of Romano’s habits in light of that. Forgiveness is another matter entirely, of course. Still, I push all my doubts aside in the interest of comforting my daughter. “It sounds like they’re real heroes, then. I’m sure…”

Bursting into tears wasn’t the reaction I expected to that. I hold her and make soothing noises.

Damn that woman for doing this to my daughter.

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Wednesday, February 2 – 7:20 PM

We end up on the couch with me leaning against him again. I mumble, embarrassed, “Sorry.” It’s as much an apology for deceiving him as my little freakout. I can never tell Dad about the kind of people she works with, the kind of person she probably is. Heroes? Only in the classical sense.

He smiles down at me. “Don’t be. Nothing to be sorry about. Feeling better?”

“Yeah, I am.” We sit in silence for a few minutes, then I sigh. “I thought I had everything figured out about my power, but I guess there’s still more to it.” Look, a distraction!

He frowns. “Taylor…”

I quickly shake my head, explaining, “No, nothing huge. It’s just… The reason I couldn’t see her was some kind of half-assed, I don’t know… Security protocol.”

“Your power has security protocols? How would it even…”

I shake my head again. “I can’t explain it now, not in enough detail to have it make sense. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to.” I smile sadly. “Spoilers.”

It takes him a moment to make the connection, then he winces. Such dangerous information hiding behind such an innocuous word.

“The point is, I blundered into a way around them but it just gives me a useless, overly broad picture. I need to see how much I can fine tune it, but if I focus too closely, the security lockout kicks back in and I can’t see anything at all.”

I frown. Something about the way I just described it is tripping a faint memory. It was definitely something she said, and it had been a bit strange at the time. But it was something about data analysis, about getting workable data sets. About…

“That canny bitch,” I murmur in awe.

Dad cocks an eyebrow at me. “After everything, I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“She planned this. No, obviously, of course she planned it, that’s what we do. She spent months teaching me the damn user’s manual.”

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Friday, February 4 – 4:30 PM

“Oh, and Lisa? One other thing…”

“Yes?”

“Beware the Ides of March.”

As she hangs up, I feel vaguely guilty about scaring her so much. Still, her curiosity would be catastrophic; I’d hate to see the world end because one girl asked the wrong question at the wrong time. He’s not very observant, doesn’t really listen. But if enough people start talking about it, investigating it, making too much noise? He notices. Acts.

That’s why her message was so oblique; it was both a warning of what was coming and a warning not to speak of it.

I still can’t see her, of course. Not as she is now, anyway, not since she triggered so many years ago. But I got to see her as she was, the young girl in the small village. I finally know her real name, where she came from.

I still can’t see her plan directly. I can’t tell the details of what people are doing for it. But I can see the timing, see the distinct phases. I can see who’s working on it, how much they know; I can even get a rough feeling of how critical each is to the overall project. When it will be ready. When this ends.

Now… Now I prepare for the hardest thing I can imagine.

Going on with my life as if everything is normal. Spending the next six weeks doing nothing about this… this crisis. Putting all my trust into her and her plan, into the people she’s assembling for the job. A plan I can’t see, people I would never want to trust.

Trusting them to get it right.

She doesn’t ask for the easy stuff.

As for me, I have a few hundred gallons of gelatin to prepare for tomorrow night.

--------​

Spoiler: Author’s note

So, I’m pretty much expecting some screams of outrage about that, but it really has been the plan all along. Everything else aside, it should be clear now why we haven’t seen Taylor’s perspective since Part 8. Yes, while Parts 10 and 11 had some important background and character development, they were, essentially, decoys for the main plot.

Path to Munchies is very much Taylor’s story; the story of a girl with an incredibly strong Thinker ability mistaking the fundamental nature of her power and ultimately fucking with the reality of everyone she encounters as a result. It’s a bit slice of lifey, a bit waffy, and even a bit horrific at times. It’s crack played straight.

But it’s very much a street level story, Taylor’s interactions with the heroes and villains of Brockton Bay (and certain other locales).

As many amusing comments as I’ve made on the subject of Endbringers and Scion, and as much fun as I had with the April Fool’s omake, I never saw the story going for that kind of endgame. It pulls the focus back too far, strips away too much of the intimacy in the preparation for total war. (Or, as with April Fool’s, goes full crack.)

One of the harder problems I had with this chapter (besides making sure I covered everything I intended to) was hitting the tone of people’s perspectives.

Spoiler: Perspectives

Danny: Uh… Yeah, this Romano woman might be trying to save the world, but… How is she different from Coil, exactly? Christ, I think she put Taylor through Supervillain 101… Oh, wait, no, it was Supervillain 101 and the training manual for her power. Wonderful.

Lisa: There’s another person with your power who intentionally bonded with you and then waited around for you to trigger? Who could’ve ended the Nine, Nilbog, and pretty much any other S-rank threat any time she wanted to, but didn’t? That’s pretty fucked up. Also, scary as hell; you at least seem to have something that resembles a moral compass. No sense of proportion, but a moral compass.

Taylor: Ok, so, she’s really clever, and obviously I don’t remember triggering because she did something nice for me, and she’s trying to save the world. Only… I guess, maybe, she’s not quite as nice as I thought, based on her friends…? No, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. In Fortuna I trust!

To be clear, Taylor still can’t see Fortuna’s plans and doesn’t know PtV used to have a bunch of really annoying blind spots. She’s sort of right about why the Nine got taken down, but not why they were allowed to persist for so long.

I also trimmed out a massive anvil of a scene on the subject of “People are just people.”

Spoiler: Is Romano a hero?

She shakes her head. “She’s really not. None of them are. I still can’t see her directly, see the things she’s actively manipulating, but I can see the people around her now. See some of the things they’ve done.” Shaking her head again, still clinging to me, she tries to explain, “Some of them are awful. Some have regrets, others don’t.”

She pulls back, looks up at me. Tears are streaming from her eyes, and I wish I had the words to comfort her. “Oh, Taylor…” ...yeah, those weren’t them.

She presses on. “Heroes. Villains. They’re all just people. All this cape stuff, it’s just… People playing out ideas, playing roles. Armsmaster is just a career driven man who wants to prove that he has what it takes, and isn’t afraid to step on anyone and everyone to do it. Kaiser isn’t even a bigot, he’s just a selfish jerk who gets off on controlling others.” She pauses to gather her thoughts. “He’s still a criminal, he’s still choosing to break the law, to do horrible things to people, to let his people do horrible things to people. But he’s just a greedy little man with too much power.

“Alexandria is…” She stops, chooses her words carefully. “She’s trying to do the right thing, but isn’t afraid to… No, won’t even hesitate to do the wrong thing if she thinks it’ll help with something more important, no matter how monstrous it is. She’s desperate, struggling to hold the world together by any means possible, but that doesn’t make what she does right.”

“Taylor, you don’t…”

“Eidolon is more fucked up than words can express. Narcissist barely scratches the surface. Legend…” She smiles sadly. “He actually is as kind as he seems, genuinely wants to believe the best of people. But he lets that blind him to the flaws in people, spends so much time trying to see the good in others that he misses the bad until it gets thrown in his face.”

“Taylor, I know.”

She stops, looks at me plaintively. “But how…? Why…?”

“I don’t know in the kind of intimate detail you that you can see them, but at the end of the day, people are just people. Some are genuinely bad, a few are truly good, and most fall somewhere in between.” I shrug. “That’s the last dirty little secret, the last polite fiction we keep for our children. Annette would’ve said, ‘Everyone is the hero of their own narrative, the villain of someone else’s.’ I just wish you hadn’t had it…” Considering her remark about Legend, I belatedly attempt to rephrase. “...exposed like this, that you’d had the opportunity to grow into the knowledge.”

There’s still a short interlude and an epilogue left to go; both will explain (for certain values of “explain”) most of the missing details. I’ll happily answer any remaining questions once they’re up.

With that said, while this is the end of the story, it’s absolutely not the end of Taylor’s adventures. I’ll post occasional snippets – some crackier than others – over time. I already have the first ready for final polishing after the actual story bits are done, a couple more in various stages of completion, and a few more that have been broadly sketched out.

The Path to Munchies stretches ever onward.

 

The mechanism has been successfully deduced on SB. Have an interlude!

10001110101 – Monday, January 3 – 7:45 AM

primary connection online
secondary connection initializing...

[DESTINATION]

[AGREEM...]

error: input received from output buffer
errorcount 01
initializing connections...

[DESTINATION]

[AGREEM...]

error: input received from output buffer
errorcount 02
initializing connections...

[DESTINATION]

[AGREEM...]

error: input received from output buffer
errorcount 03
maximum errorcount reached
modifying parameters
reinitializing primary connection...
reinitializing secondary connection...

[DESTINATION]

[AGREEM...]

error: input received from output buffer
errorcount 01
initializing connections...

[DESTINATION]

[AGREEM...]

error: input received from output buffer
errorcount 02
initializing connections...

[DESTINATION]

[AGREEM...]

error: input received from output buffer
errorcount 03
maximum errorcount reached
modifying parameters
critical error: no parameters defined
warning: all connections reset to superuser mode
purging outdated bootpic.gifv
critical error: loop condition detected
implementing channel isolation
reinitializing primary connection...
reinitializing secondary connection...

primary connection online
secondary connection online

all active connections online

resuming normal operations

Welcome to ShardOS 95. Where do you want to go tomorrow?

Spoiler: Author's note

This is the abbreviated version, reduced down to convey the message rather than a comprehensive accounting of those minutes (because I don't think anyone would want to read a few dozen pages of this). The actual maximum errorcount would be much higher; the iterative adjustments to the parameters occurring over more like half a dozen cycles, not two. I briefly considered slapping together a script that would iterate through the whole thing, then decided it'd be wasted effort and went with the short version.

Each attempt would have been in the neighborhood of 1-2 seconds. Total time spent was around four minutes before the channel isolation was activated.

It wasn't a fun morning.