Safe For Work Worm Ideas thread

[vyor]

True. Irrelevant, as aside "reload with memories", that grants no powers at all.

Click to shrink...

It granted health, defence, and damage. The reloading thing is possible without possession.

Remember, there was once an entire "equal to humans" population of monsters... and they couldn't manage to kill even a single human to get access to that soul-power enhancement. When you lose a war without even causing a single enemy casualty... that's when you KNOW the gap is insurmountable.

Click to shrink...

True, IIRC it was their physical bodies which were weak and most of their soldiers are... kind of pathetic. I mean, the mooks in the gae are pretty easy to deal with.

The bosses though? Not so much.

 

[TanaNari]

It granted health, defence, and damage.

Click to shrink...

Cite.

The reloading thing is possible without possession.

Click to shrink...

True. But it was gained because of that possession.

 

[vyor]

Cite.

Click to shrink...

Chara outright says it. Can't find a pic, would a video suffice?

True. But it was gained because of that possession.

Click to shrink...

Nope, you wake up Chara:

 

[TanaNari]

Chara outright says it. Can't find a pic, would a video suffice?

Click to shrink...

Seen it. Does not support what you claim.

 

[vyor]

Seen it. Does not support what you claim.

Click to shrink...

...

"Every time a number increases... it was me."

 

[TanaNari]

...

"Every time a number increases... it was me."

Click to shrink...

Yeah, no, he was the ENJOYMENT of the number increases. Not the increases themselves, but the feeling of accomplishment that came with it.

Everyone in the setting had those stats... some stronger than others, sure, but everyone had them. So you're misreading the text.

 

[vyor]

Ya, that makes sense. Conceded.

 

[BFldyq]

Displayed powers? The ability to kick the fourth wall in the nuts. At least a Thinker 3... mainly for being able to predict people based upon their tropes. Mover... I'd say 4... he unleashes some impressive barrage attacks.

But, fanwank aside, he really doesn't have any other powers, and apparently he tires pretty quickly. He does, ultimately, lose to a preteen. Granted, a preteen with infinite retries, but a preteen nonetheless. The Undertale lore makes it quite clear that ultimately, monsters are far weaker than humans.

Even our children are a real physical threat to their strongest warriors.

Click to shrink...

Of course, the SI is human.

 

[Angush]

<< Previous

---

Alexis - Part 2

---

Beep.

"I'm sorry…" A girl's voice. I struggled to understand. She sounded angry. "This is all my… should've… faster… you first…"

Beep.

"…sorry…"

Blackness.

—————————————————

Beep.

A hand on my lips, brushing away wetness.

"Taylor?" Another girl's voice. A different one, more familiar. "Thank you." I twitched, involuntarily. The girl quieted for a moment, or maybe my hearing failed again.

Beep.

"… I never… my fault…" I heard crying—heaving sobs. I wanted to comfort her, reach out and wipe away her tears, but I couldn't. "I wish I'd… sorry… I promise…"

Beep.

I felt myself slipping again.

Damn it.

—————————————————

Consciousness came and went, a fleeting thing. Every time, I struggled to hold onto it. Sometimes I managed long enough to hear snippets of conversation, but seconds later, without fail, I would slip back into sleep.

Sometimes I woke and felt nothing. Not the peace or calm of rest, just… nothing. As if my body did not exist, and my mind drifted in a void. Other times, I felt needles, stabbing into every inch of my skin and piercing to the bone, the ache driving me mad. Other times still, I woke to tingles in my stomach, a numbness spreading to my limbs and fading and repeating in waves, accompanied by a scorching heat that I was sure made me sweat, even if I couldn't tell.

But every waking moment was the same, in one way: I couldn't move. If I could garner enough focus, I was able to twitch a finger or a foot, but that was difficult when consciousness itself was so fickle.

Once, I managed to open my eyes. Just a fraction. Enough to see shapes, figures, surrounding my bed. People, wrapped in shimmering blurs of white and green and blue and pink, and maybe other colours, too—it was hard to tell. They turned to each other and spoke.

"…should be dead…"

"The other…"

"The police want to…"

"…injuries are severe… alive?"

"Her recovery…"

"…Parahuman?"

"No… her records…"

They spoke of many other things, too. But I only caught fragments. And those I did catch, I didn't understand. I just couldn't focus enough to make any sense of it all.

They stuck a syringe in my arm and drained my life, my blood. The needle refracted light, casting redness about the room. Then they stuck another needle in me; a smaller one, connected to a bag with a long tube. I strained to fight, to pull away, but movement was beyond me. They left, taking my life with them.

I tried to call after them, but I couldn't do that either.

My eyes felt heavy.

I don't want to die.

Blackness.

—————————————————

Danny slid into his chair with a sigh, reaching up to rub at his brow and leaning back as far as his chair would allow. The air-conditioner buzzed and whirred above him, cool air blowing down and calming him. The feeling was wonderful against his sweaty skin.

Fall wasn't meant to be this hot. Especially not so early in the morning.

He sat there for a long few minutes, trying to relax, pointedly not looking at the stack of documents on his desk that needed his signature, demanded his attention. The tide never slowed. He could sign a hundred one day, and there'd be a hundred and ten more the next. If they ever amounted to anything, he wouldn't mind. But they didn't. Every last document was just bullshit politics and legal jargon. Nothing but busywork.

It was too much. He just needed a moment to himself. Then he'd get back to it. Five minutes. It wouldn't hurt anyone. The work would still get done. Just five minutes.

His phone rang.

He should have known that was too much to ask.

For a long moment, he let it ring, and contemplated letting it go to the answering machine. But no, he couldn't do that. The answering machine was broken, and the call might be important.

Plus, the ringing was annoying him already.

With another heavy sigh, he plucked the receiver from its cradle and held it to his ear. "Daniel Hebert speaking."

"Ah, Mr. Hebert," a man spoke, the shoddy speaker crackling quietly. "My name is Raymond Turner. I work at Boston General Hospital. You are the father of one Taylor Rose Hebert, yes?"

Danny frowned, thoughts of the girl rising unbidden to his mind, accompanied of course by thoughts of Annette. His hand tightened around the receiver. "I… Yes, that's me. What's this about?"

The man cleared his throat. "Your daughter was admitted to Boston General yesterday, sir, at approximately four o'clock. She's currently unconscious, and we've put her on an intravenous drip."

Danny sighed again. He had renewed their insurance, hadn't he? "What happened?" he said. "Did she trip on the sidewalk?"

"Uh, I'm afraid not, sir," the other man said. "As I understand it, her class was on a group excursion at the Boston Tower when a supervillain entered the building and took the occupants captive. Your daughter and the villain engaged in an altercation during hostage negotiations. The fight ended when they both fell from a window, approximately one hundred feet up."

Danny went very still.

"Ms. Hebert—" Danny twitched at the name "—has suffered dozens of injuries, including first- and second-degree burns, gunshot wounds, numerous lacerations and broken bones, and a severe concussion, but… she's alive."

Wood creaked. Danny glanced down and saw his other hand clenching the broken edge of his desk, the place he always hit when he was frustrated. Tiny chips of wood poked his palm. It hurt. "I see," he said, slowly. "She's alive, you said?"

"Yes, sir. We've prescribed anti-inflammatories and analgesics, and all signs point to a complete recovery. It could take months just to regain full use of her hand, not to speak of her other injuries. But all things considered, she's a very lucky girl. Visiting hours are—"

"You said she was admitted yesterday? Why am I only being called now?"

"Uh, we tried phoning you yesterday, sir. At your registered home address, and at this number. Neither number was answered, but we did leave messages."

Danny grimaced. That would've been the call last night—the one he had ignored. And he'd forgotten to check the voicemail that morning. Dammit. "I—fuck's sake. What were you saying? About visiting hours?"

"Visiting hours are ten to four, sir."

Danny glanced at the clock on his wall. Eight past nine. Of course. He'd only just checked in. "Thank you, Mr. Turner," he said. "Is there anything else?"

"Uh… No, sir."

"Alright," Danny said. "Goodbye." He hung up the phone, returning it to its cradle, then buried his head in his hands and sat stock still, doing nothing else.

He wasn't sure how to feel. Taylor was… god, he wasn't even sure of the answer to that. She was… a reminder. Of Annette. Of everything he'd done wrong. He'd never wanted kids—being a good father was not something that ran in the Hebert family—but Annette had. And she'd been resolute, so Danny had caved, but Taylor had always been her little project. Not his. Never his. The girl was a stranger to him. But…

He looked up, eyes drifting to the stack of paperwork on his desk. Two hours to Boston. An hour at the hospital, maybe two. Another two hours back. And that's if traffic was good. It'd take up most of his work day, regardless. He'd never get the paperwork done. It'd all carry over to tomorrow's workload, unless he worked overtime. And he had an important meeting this afternoon with a construction company looking to expand…

His gaze moved to the framed photograph propped beside his pen cup. A photograph of Annette, smiling that smile of hers. She was holding Taylor—only seven years old then—in her lap, their hair caught billowing in the wind, their clothes wet and sandy from playing in the ocean.

He stared at the photograph for a long minute, not moving. Then another.

Finally, he sighed, bowing his head.

"You're right," he said to the empty air, standing. "Of course you're right. You always are." Another sigh escaped as he grabbed his keys from the bowl on his desk. "I can't ignore this." Turning, he marched out of his office, slipping his coat off the door-hanger and onto his shoulders as he passed.

"Danny!" Anderson's voice. The man hurried up to walk alongside him. "What's up? The appointment with Devon's not 'til noon, y'know."

"I know," Danny said without turning. "I need you to cover for me. There's somewhere I have to go, and I'm not sure if I'll get back in time."

"Oh? I can do that, I guess. Where are you goin'?"

"Boston." He pushed open the door. "My—my daughter's in trouble."

—————————————————

The drive felt longer than it was. Traffic wasn't bad, once he got on the freeway, and he didn't encounter any idiots or jams, for which he was thankful, but it was dull. The radio only played ads and pop music, and he turned it off after a few minutes. Which only left him with nothing to do but think.

But he didn't want to think. Seeing Taylor was always hard, and he knew he was not a strong man. He might change his mind. Turn the car around, go back to Brockton Bay, return to the everyday monotony, that endless, futile act of bucketing water out of a sinking ship. Taylor was alive, after all. He didn't need to see her. But Annette would want him to go. She'd make him go, and she'd be disappointed in him if he didn't—even more disappointed than she must be now. Even more than she was before she died.

No. He didn't want to think. So instead, he drove, focusing on the minutiae actions involved therein. A twist of the wheel at the right time, the right amount of pressure on the pedals, a keen eye kept scanning the road ahead.

Just enough to keep his mind occupied.

Two hours later—or a little over, perhaps—Danny turned into the Boston General parking lot. He wound up the windows and locked the door of his truck manually—it was too old for one of those key-chain lock clickers—then headed for the wide, glass double-doors of the hospital.

Stepping into the air-conditioning made him sigh, even as the smell of sterility filled his nostrils. He walked up to the reception desk and tapped his knuckles on the cool wood.

The nearest woman looked up and wheeled her chair over. "Can I help you?" she said with a smile.

Danny rapped his knuckles again. "I'm here to see Taylor Hebert," he said. "I'm her father."

"Just a moment," the woman said, holding up a finger and turning to her computer. Her name-tag read 'Janice'. She pursed her lips. "You're Daniel James Hebert?"

He nodded absently, studying the various pamphlets in little displays on the desk, about organ donation and adoption and breast cancer and… all sorts of things.

"I see," she said, then gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Our system's acting up. I'll go look her up manually for you, shall I?" She gestured at the rows of crappy hospital seats arrayed along the walls of the reception. "Please, take a seat. Won't be just a minute."

With that, she stood and entered a back room, slipping around a corner and moving out of sight. "Dammit," Danny muttered, turning and taking a seat close to the desk.

He twiddled his thumbs and tapped his fingers against his thighs for the better part of five minutes, frustration building. He looked around. Nurses and doctors and even a few patients moved through the halls, some fast, some slow, all with somewhere to be. The receptionist still hadn't returned.

This shouldn't be taking so long.

With an irritated grumble, Danny stood and walked over to the nearest person wearing hospital clothes—a nurse, wearing pink scrubs. Or maybe an orderly; he wasn't sure what the difference was. He tapped the man on the shoulder. "Where's Taylor Hebert's room?" he said. "I'm here to visit."

The nurse blinked at Danny, looking up from the clipboard in his hands. "The hero girl? Uh, she's in room 203, I think. Second floor, west wing." He turned and pointed down the hall. "Stairs are that way."

Danny grunted thanks and headed in the direction the man had pointed. He found the stairs easy enough, and followed them up, then looked at the door numbers to find his way.

His destination wasn't hard to find. It was right next to the staircase. And the door to her room was open.

He hesitated outside, just for a moment. Then he berated himself and stepped through. The room was small, with a tiny television mounted on the wall above a small stack of chairs, a fire extinguisher, and a folded-up wheelchair. There were only two beds, opposite the television, with a curtain partitioning them.

One was unoccupied. The other was hers.

His breath caught.

She didn't look well.

Her forehead was wrapped in a bandage, but the rest of her face was bruised all over and peppered with angry red cuts, more of which were scattered about her arms and legs. Most were small, tiny little slices that would heal over fine in a few weeks, but a few were larger, more misshapen and inflamed, the bleeding more profuse. Several more bandages were taped down on her limbs, some showing blood.

One hand was wrapped loosely in another bandage and hooked into a little swing, raising it up at an angle. The bandage was stained with pus, and the tips of her fingers poked out of it, the flesh burned and blackened. That must be what the man on the phone had been talking about.

Another bandage was taped to her cheek, completely covering whatever wound lay beneath, though the material there was also darkened and stained. Her other arm—and one leg—were each encased in casts and elevated in a similar manner to her burned hand.

A small tube connected her uninjured arm to a bag filled with clear liquid, and little wires ran from her chest to a machine by the bed—an EKG? It beeped intermittently.

But despite it all, she was sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm Danny didn't know.

A nurse stood beside the bed, her back turned to him. She removed an oxygen mask from Taylor's mouth and hooked it to the small wheel-table by the bed, then turned to leave, starting when she saw Danny. She looked at him for a moment, then glanced back at Taylor. "Do you know her?"

Danny looked away from the bed. "I'm her father," he said. It felt like a lie, in a hundred different ways.

"She'll be okay," the nurse said, turning back to him. "Just wait and see." She gave a sad smile. "You should be proud of her, you know. She saved lives yesterday."

"Hmm."

The nurse patted him on the back, then moved past him, leaving him alone. He stood a few feet from Taylor's bedside, staring at her. He wasn't sure what to feel. He felt something, that was for certain. But he wasn't sure what.

He heard movement behind him, and turned.

Two policemen stood in the doorway, fully outfitted. Behind them stood the receptionist woman, Janice. "That's him," she said, levelling a finger at Danny.

The policemen stepped forward. "Sir," one said, holding out a hand in a placating manner. "We're going to have to ask that you come down to the station with us."

Danny turned to face them completely. "What?" he said. "Why? I haven't done anything wrong. I just got here."

"We just have a few routine questions, sir."

Danny frowned. "About what?"

"You'll find out at the station," the second policeman said, stepping forward and putting a hand on Danny's shoulder, pulling him forward.

Danny slapped the hand away. "Don't touch me," he growled.

The first policeman's hand shot to his belt, wrapping around the taser he wore. His other hand remained outstretched. "Sir, please calm down. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Danny glared at him, and at the other policeman, his hand in a similar position. He glanced at Taylor, still resting. "Dammit," he muttered, turning back to the policemen. "Fine."

—————————————————

Madison walked up the reception desk, resting her hands on the edge. "Excuse me."

A woman looked up. Madison remembered her. "Ah," Mrs. Francis said, cocking her head. "I know you… You came in yesterday, didn't you?"

"Uh, yes," Madison said. "Madison Clements, here to see Taylor Hebert."

"Of course, of course." Mrs. Francis smiled, scribbling Madison's name down in the visitor book. "You're a good friend, you know that? Coming to see her like this, even though she's asleep."

Madison glanced down at her feet. She couldn't meet the woman's eyes. "Um, can I go up?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Francis said. "Go right ahead."

Madison nodded and headed down the hall. She passed a pair of policemen escorting a tall man on the stairs—I wonder what that's about?—and then she was on the second floor, standing by Taylor's door.

She hesitated. Again. Just like when she'd visited yesterday, after the paramedics had done her up and the police and PRT had finished interviewing her—separately. It just didn't feel right to enter the room, given the… specifics of their relationship. Lying to the nurses didn't help matters.

Still, she took a deep breath and stepped through the threshold, moving to the far wall. She dragged a chair over to Taylor's bedside and sat in it, placing her book in her lap and gently laying her hands over it.

Taylor breathed slowly—in, then out—but showed no reaction. The only sounds were her breathing and the regular beeps of the machine by her bed. She was still asleep.

"Taylor?" Madison said, leaning forward. "I, um… How—" She paused and cleared her throat. "Uh, so… are—are you doing okay?"

There was no response. Obviously.

Madison winced. "Sorry. Stupid question. Of course you aren't. Um…" She trailed off again, unsure of what to say. It hadn't been any easier yesterday—or… had it? She'd still been running on an emotional high, then. She hadn't thought about what she was saying at all. This was different. This time, she didn't have that… advantage, if that's what it was. And she was pulling a blank.

Okay, Madison thought. Start with something safe. "Uh, we missed the return bus, yesterday," she said. "So Mr. Gladly booked all of us into a hotel. Covered the expenses himself, and phoned everyone's parents. A lot of them drove up themselves, and most kids left with them. Mr. Gladly said the rest of us would be going back today. This afternoon."

She swallowed. "My parents came up, too. They were… worried about me. They wanted me to go back with them early, like the others. But I—I'm not going. I'm not. Not with them, and not with Mr. Gladly. Not until you wake up, or—or until the hospital transfers you back to Brockton Bay. I promise."

She coughed into her hand a few times, then sniffed. "My mom wasn't very happy with me about that," she continued. "B-but I don't care. I'll visit every day. And I have some money saved up from birthdays, so I can afford a hotel until… uh…" Another pause. "My dad was a little more, um, understanding, once I told him what happened. He—he said I was being stupid, but he approved. Told my mom to deal. He asked what your room number was, too. I—heh, I think he's going to send you a fruit basket, or something.

"I… talked with Emma, too. And Sophia. Last night. They asked me what happened. I told them. The truth. That you… you…" She stopped and looked down at her hands, each wrapped in loose strips of bandage. Moving them too much still hurt a little. They were shaking, now. She stilled them and turned away, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "You saved me, Taylor."

Beep.

For a minute, she said nothing. Then she sniffed again, and turned back in Taylor's direction, but not looking at her face, instead fixing her eyes on a wrinkle in the bed sheets.

"They reacted weirdly," Madison said. "Emma and Sophia, I mean. Emma looked… happy, for a second. Actually fucking happy, like this shit is somehow a good thing! The bitch. And fucking Sophia wasn't any better. She didn't even believe me. She told me to stop lying. I—I think she was about to hit me. But she didn't. She went off somewhere, and Emma followed her. I didn't see them this morning. I think they went back with Emma's parents."

Madison took a deep breath, but paused, then looked at Taylor's face—properly. She was still a mess. But… she looked better than she had last night. Spotting a glimmer of wetness on Taylor's lip, Madison reached out one hand, placing her fingers beneath Taylor's chin and using a thumb to wipe away the drool.

But she didn't remove her hand. Instead, she turned Taylor's head so her injured cheek was visible. Hesitant fingers peeled back the bandage. The flesh beneath was still inflamed, but it definitely looked better than it had yesterday. Less red, less… scarring. Better. She stared at it for a minute, the four thin outlines of that bastard's fingers stamped on Taylor's face. Then, as gently as she could, Madison taped the bandage back down and moved her hands down to rest on Taylor's.

Madison sniffed, and silence lingered. Then: "My dad always told me to pay my debts. You know, return favours. That kind of thing. And I… I definitely owe you. A lot." She paused again. "Another thing he always said was that I should t-treat others the way I'd like to be treated. I—I haven't done very well there, have I?"

No response. Madison shook her head. "But I—I'm going to do better. I am. When—when you get back, I won't let them hurt you anymore. I promise. I won't let them hurt anyone." Her hands tightened around Taylor's. It hurt. "And if—if you want me to, I'll tell the principal. A-and the c-cops. I-I'll tell them everything. All of it. We could probably get Sophia sent to juvie. She'll never be able to bother anyone again, yeah? I won't—we won't let her.

"And I—I'll c-compensate you. For the, uh, property damage. Take you shopping, maybe. Y-you're not ugly, like we said you were. Not even a little. Just the opposite. I-if I helped, you could probably be a model! More successful than Emma, even. Rub her face in it, if you want. I could teach you makeup—uh, Emma said you never learned—and get you some nice dresses, or something…" She hunched over Taylor's bedside, trying and failing to still her trembles. "Whatever you want, I'll do it. A-anything. S-so, please, just…"

A sob escaped her throat.

"Don't die."

—————————————————

The woman stepped out of the van, smoothing her jeans, straightening her jacket, and lowering the hood, then moved up to the driver's side window. "Keep the engine running," she said. "Be ready to—"

"I know," the driver said with exasperation. "We've been over this a hundred times."

The woman nodded. "Just making sure," she said. "Message me if there's any trouble." Then she turned on a heel and entered the hospital, walking right past the reception desk.

She knew where she was headed.

Her skin tingled, prickling with anxiety. Apprehension. Maybe even anticipation. Her eyes darted about as she walked, taking in everything. Memorising faces, comparing them. Analysing body language, movement patterns, watching for any attention on her. Her ears were similarly tuned as she eavesdropped on the passing conversations, listening for anything suspicious, any familiar voices—anyone she recognised would only be trouble here. So she watched, for anything at all that could indicate a trap…

There! A man in a doctor's coat was watching her out of the corner of his eyes. He'd paused in a conversation with another man, who was also looking her up and down. She tensed. Plants? Dammit! How had they gotten in position so damn fast? The man leaned over to whisper in his companion's ear as she passed, keeping an eye on them with the reflection on a metal cabinet in the hall.

She needed a plan, a way to deal with them. Did they recognise her? That would complicate matters. They'd be in contact with—wait, no. Neither had looked at her face yet. Even as the thought occurred to her, both men's eyes slid downward, to her hips.

They were ogling her.

She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second and released her held breath. Of course there weren't any spies here. She'd only learned of Taylor's admittance less than half an hour ago, when the hospital had received her blood-test results, and the woman had broken several traffic laws getting here as fast as she had. She couldn't have been beaten. And if Leon had been quick enough at falsifying the records, there probably wouldn't be any trouble at all.

Still, she couldn't stop herself from feeling for the handgun tucked into her jacket pocket. Just to confirm it was there. It was, of course—she'd made sure of that—but just touching it made her feel more confident. Less out of place, as contradictory as that was.

The two men turned back to their conversation, no longer taking any notice of her. Their body language was relaxed, open, friendly. No. Definitely not spies. Impersonating doctors was often more trouble than it was worth, anyway. Janitors were better.

She turned and took the stairs one at a time. A part of her mind screamed there was no time, she had to move faster! But hurrying would only draw attention. Cresting the stairs, she walked a few more feet and stopped.

Room 203W.

She entered the room and walked to Taylor's bedside. Another girl sat beside the bed, reading aloud the book held in her bandaged hands. A brunette, petite. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she stopped reading and looked up when the woman neared.

The woman ignored her, instead looking at Taylor, still unconscious. She was a mess, covered in injuries almost head to toe. The damage was more extensive than the woman had expected, too—and that would make things difficult.

But all the same, she recognised the girl's face. It was hard not to. She'd seen it a thousand times.

"Um… can I help you?" the brunette said.

The woman glanced at her. How to play this? She looked the girl up and down, taking in body language while she analysed her speech. Taylor Hebert was a student, and this girl likely was, too. Combined with the obvious timidity…

After a moment of thought, she set her jaw and shifted her feet, setting them just a little bit wider, then squared her shoulders and straightened her spine. She stared down at the brunette's eyes and spoke in an authoritarian tone, "What's your name?"

"Madison," the brunette said on instinct, shrinking into her seat a little. "Um…"

"Are you her friend?" the woman said, nodding toward the bed.

Madison tried to hide a wince, but failed. "Y-yes. From school." Confirmation. Good. The girl stiffened, a slight frown creasing her brow. "Who are you?"

The woman paused, turning to the bed to hide her hesitation, but continued to watch Madison out of the corner of her eye. What did the wince mean? Was she lying? Why would she lie about being Taylor's friend? Unless she was a plant, but… no. Madison was too young for that. Guilt? Why? Had she been at the Tower? The injuries suggested yes…

If the reports she'd read were accurate, Taylor had attacked a bank robber. Most of the hostages had injuries of some description, but they were mostly minor cuts and burns. Nothing that required bandages. No, Madison's hands were a positive indication she'd been more personally involved, closer to the action. The villain had taken a girl hostage, according to the witness reports. Was that Madison? Had Taylor rescued her? That may explain the guilt—if that's what it was.

But more important was the other question.

Could she use that?

"Um, excuse me?" Madison said, frowning. "I asked you a question. Who are you?"

The woman glanced back at Madison. Fuck it, she thought, taking a deep breath.

"My name is Ashley," she said with a reassuring smile. "I'm her sister."

—————————————————

Danny slammed the door of the taxi, then threw a pair of twenties at the driver to quiet his curses and stalked across the parking lot to the hotel. A bell tinkled as he pushed the door open, but he barely noticed it.

A black-skinned man sat behind a protective window in the lobby, flipping through a newspaper. He looked up as Danny approached. "Single-bed room costs eighty for a night."

Danny scowled, slapping down his card. The proprietor made the transaction and passed over the key, which Danny snatched from his hand, turning to march up the stairs.

"Good day to you, too," the proprietor called.

Danny ignored him.

The door to Danny's room slammed shut behind him, but he paid it no mind, immediately making his way to the phone. There, he punched in the numbers and waited for the click.

"Hello?"

"Anderson," Danny said. "It's me."

"Danny? I was just thinking about calling you, 'til I remembered you don't have a cell. How's Taylor?"

"She's in the hospital. I—" His free hand curled into a fist. "Listen, something's come up. I might not be coming in again this week."

"The hospital? Shit, man. Is she okay?"

"She's fine, it's just—I have a few things to take care of before I come back. Can you tell the guys?"

"Of course!" Anderson sounded scandalised, but Danny was too tired to care. "Don't you worry 'bout us, yeah? We'll get Jim to fill in for you. And don't worry about Hank, neither. He'll understand. His daughter has leukaemia, y'know."

Danny pinched his nose. "Thanks," he said. "I—How'd the meeting go?"

"No problems there," Anderson said. "Alexander took point, used your pitch. They said they'd send over some contracts in a week or two."

"Good, that's good." He paused, and sighed. "Fuck. I'm sorry, I have to—"

"No, no," Anderson said. "I told you, don't worry about us. Take care of your own shit first, man. We'll still be here when you get back, yeah?"

"Alright. You're right." An exhale of breath, slow and long. "I'll… talk to you later, Anderson."

"See you, Danny. Give Taylor my best wishes."

Click.

Danny lowered the phone slowly. For a long minute, he didn't move. Then he sat on the bed and buried his head in his hands.

Abuse? They thought he was fucking abusing her?

His hands formed fists against his face. They trembled.

He would never raise a hand against a woman. And he never had, not once in his—no. Once. The one time he hated to remember. An argument with Annette, her usual stubbornness entering the field. It was petty. Stupid. Inane. He hadn't separated the recyclables properly. And the day had been long, a half-dozen men poached by the gangs, a pervading sense of futility that still had yet to fade.

Anger flowing through his veins.

Blood dripping on the linoleum.

The look on her face, that he still remembered as if it were yesterday, even after all these years.

But he'd sworn it wouldn't happen again. Promised to control his temper better. And she'd gone off to fetch the first-aid kit and helped him clean the blood, and they'd silently agreed to pretend it hadn't happened. And he'd kept that promise, no matter how hard it had been sometimes.

No. He had never hit Taylor, and never would. He'd never even thought about it. He had no reason to. She was the picture of perfect behaviour around the house.

But the police… they'd shown him the pictures. The bruises the covered fifty, sixty percent of her body, maybe more. The injuries that couldn't be accounted for by what happened at the Tower. The ones that were weeks old, even months.

And they hadn't believed him when he said he didn't know. They'd even called Child Protection Services, and told him he would not be allowed to see her until the truth was determined. Which might not even happen until Taylor woke up, and was deemed fit to give testimony.

The bruises couldn't be denied, though. Someone was abusing her—she certainly wasn't doing it to herself. But he didn't know who, and had no idea how to find out. No leads. No nothing.

He sighed. Maybe the police were right. Beatings weren't the only form of abuse. Neglect was counted in the same list. And as much as he'd like to think otherwise, maybe he had been neglectful.

After all, he had seen her injuries before. Some of them. He knew they existed. How could he not? One day she'd limp around the house, even if she tried to hide it. Another day there'd be blood staining the floor or her clothes, sometimes enough that the washing machine couldn't erase it. The frequent winces when she bent too far or stretched too wide or bumped into something. And just last week—had it even been that long? He had no idea—he'd seen the cut on her wrist.

But he hadn't said anything. Just turned away, put it out of his mind. It wasn't his problem.

Not the attitude of a father.

On the other end of the spectrum, he'd given her everything she needed. He'd made sure there was always two sets of dinners in the freezer; provided her any money she required for school books or busses or clothes; kept the power and gas and water running, even on his worst days, when just getting out of bed was a struggle, and he used none of those himself.

But that wasn't enough. He knew that. Children needed more than material goods. They needed care and support and attention and… other things. Emotional things.

Love.

And in all honesty, he'd never provided that.

He'd never even tried.

With a garbled hiss of frustration, he lay back on the bed, spreading his arms. It wasn't particularly comfortable. But no bed was, these days. At least there was enough softness there to let him sink in. He kicked his shoes off and closed his eyes.

For a few minutes, he just lay there, trying not to think, trying to relax. And it actually worked. To a certain degree.

Cracking an eye, he glanced over at the clock. It wasn't even two o'clock yet. Daylight still filtered in through the mostly-closed curtains. But he was tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally. So very, very tired.

He sighed again. He needed to pick up his truck, still at the hospital. And sort this mess out with the police. And then he could see Taylor, properly. Maybe start making up for things. Be the father Annette had always said he could be—or try to, at least. And he had to do it all soon, so he could get back to work.

But… that could all wait for tomorrow.

He threw a pillow over his face and rolled onto his side.

Taylor wasn't going anywhere.

—————————————————

Madison blinked. Sister? I thought Taylor was an only child.

She looked the woman up and down. The resemblance was definitely there—the woman had the same big brown eyes, the same wide mouth, even the same height. The biggest differences were her hair—straight, short, and raven-black rather than curly, long, and brown—which could easily be dyed and styled, and her age. This woman looked a similar age to Emma's older sister, Anne, or maybe older. Early twenties, Madison thought.

They could be sisters, but… something didn't feel right.

She narrowed her eyes. "Taylor never mentioned having a sister," Madison said, watching the woman in front of her for a reaction.

The woman—Ashley?—picked up the chart that hung from the foot of Taylor's bed and studied it with pursed lips. "I'd be surprised if she had," she said, casting a momentary glance at Madison. "She doesn't know I exist."

"You—" Madison clicked her mouth shut. "What?"

Ashley smirked. "Do you actually need me to say that again?"

Madison flushed. "No. But…" She cocked her head, smiling slightly. "If you're her sister, you'll be able to answer a few questions, right?"

Ashley glanced at her again. "Shoot."

"What's her dad's name?"

"Daniel Hebert," Ashley answered without looking up. "Why?"

Madison went to speak, but paused. She didn't actually know what Taylor's dad's name was—Emma had only ever called him 'Mr. Hebert.' Good job, Madison. You idiot. "How can she not know?"

"We've never met." She put the chart back on the bed frame and walked around to Taylor's side. "Obviously."

Another ridiculous statement. "How?" Madison said. "Why would Mr. Hebert not tell her?"

"He doesn't know, either," Ashley said, leaning forward and gripping Taylor's head with one hand, turning it left and right.

"He doesn't—What are you doing?"

Ashley peeled back Taylor's eyelids, one at a time, leaning in to observe. Madison frowned. She was just opening her mouth to repeat the question when Ashley slapped Taylor across the face.

"Hey!" Madison jumped up and reached out to knock Ashley's hand away, glaring at the woman. Her book fell to the floor. "Don't do that! What's wrong with you?"

Ashley shook her hand off easily, glaring back. "I need to know how bad her condition is. If she can move, if she can talk. If she can register what we're saying. It's important."

"Of course she can't move! She's unconscious!"

"I know," Ashley said, stepping forward. "That's why I'm slapping her." Then she did it again.

"Stop it!" Madison said, hurrying around the bed and putting herself between Taylor and Ashley, spreading her arms. "Don't touch her!"

Ashley stared at Madison for a moment, her face betraying nothing. Then she nodded in Taylor's direction. "She's awake."

Madison turned and froze. She was right. Taylor rolled her head around lazily, her eyes blinking and squinting beneath furrowed brows. Her mouth worked in silence. She moved an arm—the broken one—and gave a feeble, wordless cry of pain. Madison winced.

Ashley pushed Madison aside and leaned over Taylor's bed, holding her head in gentle hands. "Taylor?" she said. "Can you hear me?"

"Uhh?" was the only response.

"If you can understand me, I want you to move your arm." Ashley patted her unbroken arm on the shoulder. "This one. Can you do that?"

Silence.

The arm moved.

Madison sunk to her knees.

"Good, good," Ashley said, smiling. "My name's Ashley, okay? I'm going to get you out of here. Don't worry. Just sit tight."

She left Taylor's bedside for a moment and came back with a wheelchair, which she unfolded and set aside. Then she disconnected the EKG wires and withdrew the IV and started undoing the slings on Taylor's broken limbs. Taylor groaned quietly.

Madison's eyes widened as Ashley's words sunk in. "No!" she said, jumping to her feet and interposing herself between them again. "Y-you're not taking her anywhere! She needs to stay in the hospital, so she can get better."

Ashley glared at her. "I can provide private medical care," she said. "Better than this. And she's my sister. You have no right to interfere."

"But you—" Madison thought as fast as she could. "You can't just take her! You have to fill out a transfer form."

"We don't have the time," Ashley growled. "I found her. And while I did my best to avoid it, I doubt I'm the only one who did. Others won't be far behind."

"Wha—Others? Like who?"

Ashley stepped in close, making Madison shrink back as she leaned down to her height. "That villain Taylor attacked? He's dead. Died on impact."

Madison's eyes widened. She'd thought, but… if he'd died, how had Taylor survived?

"His name was Friedrich Burch," Ashley continued. "He had a long rap sheet of assault and theft, though powers were a new addition."

"S-so? What does it matter? He's d-dead."

"Yes, but he belonged to one of the local gangs." Ashley met Madison's eyes with a piercing stare. "And do you really believe he didn't have any friends?"

—————————————————

Ashley watched as Madison paled, her face turning chalk-white in seconds. Then the girl started shaking.

Okay, Ashley thought. Maybe that worked a little too well.

Madison swallowed. "Y-you mean—"

"Yes." No need to say any more. Lies always worked better the less detail one provided. The girl's imagination would fill in the rest. "They could get here any minute, for all we know. We need to move her. For her own safety."

Madison didn't say anything.

"You want to keep her safe, don't you?"

Madison glanced up, her lip trembling. She gave a jerky nod.

Ashley made her face gentle, relaxing the muscles and smiling softly. "So do I," she said. "And I promise you, this is the best way. She's not safe here." Slowly, she reached out a hand and placed it on Madison's shoulder. "Will you help me?"

Madison swallowed again, and looked at Taylor. For a long moment, she said nothing, and Ashley itched to shove her out of the way and do it herself. But Madison was an obstacle, and ignoring her could be disastrous.

Then, finally, Madison turned back to Ashley and nodded. Together, they lifted Taylor from the bed and lowered her to the wheelchair—though Madison looked about to cry from Taylor's near-silent whimpers, until Taylor slipped back into sleep. Ashley secured the belt around Taylor's waist and turned the wheelchair to Madison.

"You push," Ashley said, lifting her hood as she turned and headed for the door. "Follow me."

Madison nodded. Her face was still deathly pale, but she grasped the handles lightly, hiding a grimace of pain, and did as she was told.

Ashley led them through the hall and to the elevator, taking it down to the first floor. She tapped her feet. The music annoyed her, for a whole five seconds. Then the doors slid open, and they entered another hallway, turning and heading for the lobby. Ashley could almost see Madison's nerves fraying, the way the girl bit her lip. But she'd hold.

They rounded a corner and came face to face with a group of three. Two severe looking men in suits, and a wrinkled, portly man.

Seymour.

Their eyes met.

He spoke. "Ash—"

She pulled the gun from her jacket and fired at one of his men in one motion—not a shot meant to kill, just distract. The bullet took the bodyguard in the knee, and he collapsed with a garbled shout, accompanied by screams from the nearby nurses—and Madison. She barely heard any of it with how her ears rang. She hadn't meant to hit him, but now wasn't the time to stop and apologise.

In a fraction of a second, the other bodyguard grabbed Seymour by the lapels and dived into a neighbouring room, pulling his client along with a yelp.

Ashley spun on Madison, the girl wide-eyed and trembling. "Go!" she snapped, pushing the girl forward with her spare hand. Madison stumbled, but her feet caught on and set her running full-tilt for the door, even if she didn't consciously register it.

"To the parking lot!" Ashley said, turning back around. The bodyguard peeked around the doorway and shot at her, the dart burying itself in the wall. She fired vaguely in his direction, and he ducked behind the wall again. "I'm right behind you!"

The other bodyguard reached out to grab her ankle, but she kicked him in the face and pulled clear, sprinting after Madison.

"Stop!"

Doctors and nurses and others all jumped out of her way as she ran. More muted shots rang out from behind her, and she twisted around to fire another pair of covering shots, ignoring how her hands trembled.

"Stop shooting, dammit!"

Fuck you, Seymour.

The lobby was empty when she ran through, all the visitors ducked behind chairs or the reception desk. That served her fine. She burst out the doors just behind Madison, shoes thudding on the asphalt.

"The van!" she called. Madison glanced back, panic writ large on her face. Ashley pointed. "That one!"

The van in question pulled up just ahead of them, Cassandra leaning out the window and beckoning frantically. A gunshot exploded, resounding about the parking lot, much louder than any others, even hers.

Blood spurted onto the asphalt.

Madison collapsed with a scream, rolling limply.

Taylor rolled forward, coming to a stop when she bumped into the van.

Fuck!

"Cass!"

Ashley's mind kicked into overdrive. Madison had taken the hit to her collarbone, left shoulder. The sound had been loudest from the same direction. She spun, raising the pistol in a two-handed grip. Light glimmered on a rooftop. The trajectory, the angle, was calculated. Her hands didn't tremble this time.

She fired.

Her aim was imperfect.

The bullet hit the ridge just beneath the sniper's nest. But it was enough to make him—or her—roll away, leaving the gun behind.

Ashley shot again, just to be sure, while ducking down to wrap an arm around Madison. With awkward movements, she dragged Madison to the van. At the same time, Cassandra heaved Taylor's wheelchair into the back and locked the wheels down, then climbed back into the driver's seat.

"Hurry up!"

Ashley saw motion on the roof, and fired again. And again. Then she spun and shot twice at the hospital walls, in case Seymour's bodyguard had decided to follow. He hadn't.

She threw Madison's limp body into the back of the van. The girl groaned as she landed with a thump, then Ashley climbed in herself.

"Drive!"

"I am!" Cass yelled as the van rumbled into movement.

Another rifle shot sounded, a bullet punching clear through the rear of the van and continuing through the bottom, barely missing Ashley's thigh. She jerked out of reflex and fell on her back beside the open door, rolling onto her side and taking aim once more.

She fired, and missed completely.

She fired again.

The pistol clicked empty.

She grabbed the door and pulled it shut, then rolled away, stopping when she bumped Madison.

A split second later, another rifle bullet ripped through the door, missing her by inches. The engine roared as they accelerated.

Another shot, shattering the driver's side mirror. Cass swore.

And then they were gone, racing down the street, well above the speed limit.

Away from the hospital.

The gun slid from Ashley's fingers.

She dropped her head to the floor of the van and sighed into her trembling hands.

"Fuck."

---

A/N: I have a few questions for you readers, if you will:

1. Pacing/flow/characterisation. Good? Not?
2. POV switches. Confusing? Would you prefer they be labelled?
3. Events. Logical? Anything stand out as unrealistic?
4. Anything else you'd like to comment on?

 

[vyor]

3. Events. Logical? Anything stand out as unrealistic?

Click to shrink...

Why the actual fuck would the police take danny in for interrogation? There is literally no purpose for that.

 

[Lazurman]

Lots of Taylor's wounds are old. Bruises, stitches. Hallmarks of abuse. They're right about the abuse. Not about the abuser.

 

[vyor]

Lots of Taylor's wounds are old. Bruises, stitches. Hallmarks of abuse. They're right about the abuse. Not about the abuser.

Click to shrink...

She fell out of a, what was it, 10 story building? And was burnt heavily?

Literally none of that should be visible. At all.

 

[Angush]

Why the actual fuck would the police take danny in for interrogation? There is literally no purpose for that.

Click to shrink...

What Lazurman said.

Edit:

She fell out of a, what was it, 10 story building? And was burnt heavily?

Literally none of that should be visible. At all.

Click to shrink...

I'm pretty confident a doctor would be able to recognise old injuries, even if they're surrounded by new ones. And there's no way every single one of her many old injuries would be hidden by the new.

She wasn't burnt heavily, either. Just her hand and cheek, and little tiny burns on her legs from shards of glass.

 

[vyor]

I'm pretty confident a doctor would be able to recognise old injuries, even if they're surrounded by new ones. And there's no way every single one of her many old injuries would be hidden by the new.

Click to shrink...

10 story fall.

That she didn't literally go splat or get torn limb from limb is a fucking miracle in and of itself. That's a 100 foot drop, 120 if it's a commercial building.

She would be barely recognizable after a fall like that.

 

[Angush]

10 story fall.

That she didn't literally go splat or get torn limb from limb is a fucking miracle in and of itself. That's a 100 foot drop, 120 if it's a commercial building.

She would be barely recognizable after a fall like that.

Click to shrink...

A bit less than 100 feet. It's a long-ass distance, yeah. But people have survived longer. She also landed on the other guy (but mentioning that in-story would've been awkward), and her body started healing as soon as she landed. She heals faster than a normal person, for reasons as-yet unexplained.

I can change it to seventy or eighty feet, if you really find it impossible.

 

[vyor]

and her body started healing as soon as she landed. She heals faster than a normal person, for reasons as-yet unexplained.

Click to shrink...

...
How to put this delicately... fuck it.
*cough*

THAT MAKES IT WORSE! HOW THE HELL WOULD INJURIES THAT LAST DAYS AT MOST STILL BE VISIBLE IN THAT CASE!?!?!!? DO YOU THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU WRITE BEFORE YOU POST?

 

[Lazurman]

Please, good QQer. Chill thine tits.

This is a valid point, though. Do her powers have the arbitrary limit of only healing in combat? Or something similarly exotic?

 

[vyor]

Please, good QQer. Chill thine tits.

This is a valid point, though. Do her powers have the arbitrary limit of only healing in combat? Or something similarly exotic?

Click to shrink...

Why would bullying that leaves bruises not count as combat?

 

[Xilph]

Why would bullying that leaves bruises not count as combat?

Click to shrink...

Because of the same reason a bunch of people beating the shit out of you while you're down wouldn't count as combat? Combat inherently requires some kind of opposition, if you just take it without fighting back it's not actually combat as neither of you are combating anything, you're just getting beaten up.

So yeah, bullying capable of leaving bruises could count as combat, but not if you don't try to oppose their bullying attempts, if they'd already crushed the will out of you so you just took it and hoped it magically got better or something? Not combat.

 

[Larekko12]

I want to like the story but I keep having to think AuDannyAuDannyAuDanny just to not get sick.


Also the Run around on mads felt kinda silly. That's her job. I keep thinking if this is in a recent high profile case where are the cops?

 

[Xilph]

Oh yeah, the story is interesting but everything except the Danny segments need more chapters to make any sense, Ashley is a giant black box of mysteries after all that is clearly fundamental to the plot, along with major stuff going on behind the scenes.

 

[Angush]

...
How to put this delicately... fuck it.
*cough*

THAT MAKES IT WORSE! HOW THE HELL WOULD INJURIES THAT LAST DAYS AT MOST STILL BE VISIBLE IN THAT CASE!?!?!!? DO YOU THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU WRITE BEFORE YOU POST?

Click to shrink...

Jesus christ, man. Chill out, will you? Of course I think about it. I have my integrity. I didn't give loads of detail because it's a spoiler, and I'd like to maintain a sense of mystery and confusion that pervades the early parts of the story (unlike some authors who seem content to post outlines of characters and powers on the first page, which I never read, and I'm not really comfortable doing with this story since her abilities are a big part of the mystery).

-snip spoiler information-

Also the Run around on mads felt kinda silly. That's her job.

Click to shrink...

Sorry, I have no idea what this means.

I keep thinking if this is in a recent high profile case where are the cops?

Click to shrink...

It's not a high profile case. As far as the police are concerned, the case is closed. Ashley was lying through her teeth about the villain and his accomplices, and Madison bought into it because she's naive and the idea scared her shitless, and she doesn't know what the police know. That is, that Mr. Crazy was just a random first-timer villain who robbed a bank and messed up bad. No connection to any gang.

I'm probably going to do a scene in part 3 from the police's perspective to clarify a bit.

Oh yeah, the story is interesting but everything except the Danny segments need more chapters to make any sense, Ashley is a giant black box of mysteries after all that is clearly fundamental to the plot, along with major stuff going on behind the scenes.

Click to shrink...

Yeah. The chapters aren't really meant to be self-contained, they're all part of a greater whole. Serial publishing it will probably cause problems since I know not everyone has my patience for being drip-fed information (and I may not be great at doing so, as this is my first fic), but I know there's an audience for me, however small, so I'm going to do my best.

Part 3 will slow down and take time to explain things (sort of). No guns or fighting there. But the overall sense of not really knowing what's happening (while hopefully knowing just enough to follow events) will persist for a while, until Taylor gets brought into the fold.

 

[Larekko12]

Sorry, I have no idea what this means.

It's not a high profile case. As far as the police are concerned, the case is closed. Ashley was lying through her teeth about the villain and his accomplices, and Madison bought into it because she's naive and the idea scared her shitless, and she doesn't know what the police know. That is, that Mr. Crazy was just a random first-timer villain who robbed a bank and messed up bad. No connection to any gang.
.

Click to shrink...

I mean lying to adult and spinning bullshit is her job. Her getting game run on her feels sorta silly.

 

[Angush]

I mean lying to adult and spinning bullshit is her job. Her getting game run on her feels sorta silly.

Click to shrink...

Oh. Well she's still really shaken up about the whole situation (ie. being taken hostage and everything with Taylor), and she's never had a game run on her before.

 

[pheonix89]

She fell out of a, what was it, 10 story building? And was burnt heavily?

Literally none of that should be visible. At all.

Click to shrink...

Yes, it totally would. Healing Taylor's injuries from the shit she went through for at least a year to the level of undetectablity is probably beyond Contessa operating solo or Riley. Panacea could do it but it would take some serious time.

 

[vyor]

That's not everything, but it's all that's relevant to your complaint (I think). If you comment on the contents, please spoiler it.

Click to shrink...

10. Story. Fall.

Humans almost literally explode from drops that high, I know, I've seen pictures. If she bruises easily, her entire body would be 1 gigantic bruise. I don't give a shit that she landed on someone, that wouldn't help in the slightest.

 

[vyor]

Yes, it totally would. Healing Taylor's injuries from the shit she went through for at least a year to the level of undetectablity is probably beyond Contessa operating solo or Riley. Panacea could do it but it would take some serious time.

Click to shrink...

Small bruises?

Are you really that dumb? Because that's about what she got during canon. No broken bones, no stitches(her dad did not know of the bullying, remember?), not even small cuts. Also, 10 fucking story fall.

 

[TanaNari]

I don't give a shit that she landed on someone, that wouldn't help in the slightest.

Click to shrink...

Would actually make it exponentially worse. Hitting a flat surface with more or less even force distribution will reduce impact damage significantly. Not nearly enough under the circumstances... though if you're lucky enough to hit muddy soil as oppose to anything else, you have a pretty half ass chance of survival.

Landing on a human being means bone (which is about twice as strong as concrete by volume, FYI... and over sixty five times stronger by weight) pressing against your flesh in irregular patterns that concentrate the impact force into a much smaller area.

It's mechanically the difference between being punched by someone. And being punched by someone wearing brass knuckles. Brass knuckles that might shatter into sharp jagged shards of glass that stab through you, depending on exactly how the collision occurs. Granted, bone is amazing against impact damage- it's twisting that shatters bone- so chances are that won't be a problem.

 

[Deathwings]

What is the story even about anyway ? Because so far it's failing to hook me in despite the fact that I'm giving it more chances out of boredom then I usually would.

 

[vyor]

Very amusing.