Unauthorised Access

by ghostlied

Summary:

Lisa proves to be more elusive than expected and slips out of Coil's grasp when he sends his goons to give her an aggressive recruitment pitch. In the aftermath she takes refuge with the PRT where she proceeds to make herself everyone's problem.

A Lisa in the Wards fic, because Taylor shouldn't be the only one who gets to have all the fun.

Chapter 1: Breach 1.1

It’s time to get the fuck out of Brockton Bay. I'd made up my mind about that even before I’d decided to break into the Boardwalk security office. If there had been any buses out of town this time of night I’d already be on one. There aren't, so in absence of anything better to do I'm letting my paranoia rule me.

It’s never led me astray so far.

The Bay had looked like the perfect spot to try to carve out a niche for myself. It's a large enough city to actually be worth living in, small enough to be out of the way, and so much cape activity that any little thing I did around the edges would probably be lost in the overwhelming amount of weird this place attracted.

Clearly I had been wrong about that. Everything about Brockton Bay had been wrong from the moment I got here. I'd barely stepped off the bus before my power started going haywire and it hasn't let up for days. It feels like no matter where I go I have watching eyes on me. That on its own isn’t crazy. Like, a cop checking out some homeless girl to see if she's worth hassling? I get it even if I can't say I like it. Being followed around by some random creepy dude isn't great either, but it’s hardly the first time it's happened to me.

I've learned to accept that kind of normal shittiness, but it's been replaced by something new. My power screams at me that the cops watching me are actually deep-cover secret agents looking for me specifically. It lies to me, telling me that the random creepy dudes chasing me down blind alleys are simply rushing to meetings because they’re late.

In short, my power’s broken and I don’t have the luxury of turning it off-and-on-again. I can’t even just turn it off, which would be an acceptable second best right now. I'd settle just for going back to before I'd gotten a handle on it. Normally I try not to think too hard about those first few bad nights on my own, but it'd be better than this.

At least then it was still working for me in a sense: power-induced migraines were a great way to avoid dealing with my parents. I think that might have been the most useful aspect of my power.

That and helping me pick locks. The last pin lines up and I feel more than hear the very satisfying clunk as the cylinder rotates. I let out the breath I'd been holding and pocket my pen clip and bent bobby pin. I wait for a moment, listening for anything out of place.

Everything's out of place lately, so fuck if I know what I'm actually listening for. Eventually I stand up from where I’m crouching on the second-floor landing, grab the handle and the doorframe at once, and push inwards as gently as I can manage. The quiet creak of the door hinges go off like a gunshot in the otherwise-silent building. I spin around, staring back down the dark stairwell for any signs of pursuit. Nothing.

Nothing that I can see, anyways.

I let myself into the office and close the door behind me.

I’ve never been here before, but I know where everything I need will be. I reach through the darkness for a light switch, flick it, then rush over to the two narrow windows overlooking the street to drop the blinds so the light wouldn’t be as noticeable to anyone passing below. The enforcer who should’ve been here, watching these feeds? He just got a very convincing call from his bank, alerting him to some suspicious withdrawals earlier in the evening. My call was even more convincing once he checked his balance and realised it was a big fat zero.

Last-minute bus tickets don’t pay for themselves, after all.

I spin on my heels and head to the monitor setup that’ll give me dozens of eyes to use and countless memories of the last few hours. It’s everything I need to figure my shit out. I find the feed I’m looking for, rewind the footage.

I have no idea if this won't just follow me to wherever else I go, but the problems started here and I don't have any better ideas. Before I leave town forever, I want to know as much as I can about what’s chasing me. It sure as hell beats just sitting around stewing while I wait for the other shoe to drop.

I flop down into the rolly office chair and get to work.

There's this itch in the back of my brain that I can't get rid of, telling me that I’ve missed something important. It only gets worse as I fast forward through hours of security footage. A tingle starts just under my left arm and spreads into full body goosebumps as I have no idea what my power is about to tell me about my encounter with the local Boardwalk thug.

Then at last I find the moment I’m looking for.

“Hey you,” I whisper.

I look terrible, I realise, and brazenly out of place amidst the high end boutiques of the Boardwalk. Trying to keep a low profile while living on the streets made sense to me, but I might’ve taken it a bit too far. My clothes are mismatched and shapeless and entirely unflattering, making me look like the kind of girl that resented how naturally and effortlessly pretty cheerleaders were.

My hair is outright greasy, hanging limply and clumping up into blue-tipped strands. I hadn’t realized how bad it’d gotten. My scalp itches just seeing it, and I have to resist the urge to run my fingers through my hair back in the now. It would accomplish nothing except making me sad. Even my freckles can't save the sallow cast to my face, although I'm holding out hope that maybe bad video quality is making it look worse than it is. In retrospect it's a small miracle no one had tried harder to kick me out before, if that's how destitute I looked while wandering around the only nice tourist trap in town.

The chick that finally does try regrets it in short order. She doesn't even ask how I know any of the shit I needle her with, let alone accuse me of colluding with someone else to fuck with her. She just panics and runs off to do more damage to her relationship than I ever could. Her little meltdown does mean I went too far and need to rewind the tape, though, so I can follow the people who accosted me before and after I saw them.

Watching the footage isn't as good as being there. The silent video captures a limited set of angles and generally provides a far less rich starting point for my power to work from. On the other hand, I have a second chance to analyse events when I’m not fuelled purely by panic and adrenaline. While I might not have all the details captured on tape, I get to endlessly repeat what I do have as I comb through the same three minutes over and over.

It all happens so fast. The fake enforcer shows up at the door, even though no alarm has sounded. A moment later the man at the changing rooms stands up as well. Past-me has had enough. She bolts towards the intruder instead of deeper into the store. The enforcer grabs hold of her, but she sheds her hoodie like a lizard's tail and then she's out the door.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "Yeah, just like that, girl." That looked way cooler on film than it had felt at the time.

The man at the changing room looks up at the disturbance as past-me makes her getaway. He says something to his girlfriend then heads over towards the rack to look at dresses, completely uninterested in the altercation. The enforcer jogs after past-me but doesn't pursue very far, just enough to make sure she's not sticking around.

I rewind. I can't trace the enforcer far, but the other two had been in the shop for nearly thirty minutes before I got there. The man is definitely armed, and the woman probably is also armed although it's hard to tell for certain. Stupid purse. They're both definitely ex-military. And yet they are shopping for a dress, for a wedding maybe? My power isn't sure but is all too happy to speculate before I reel it back in. They're definitely not laying in wait for an ambush. Despite that they aren't a couple. They're present for genuinely couple-ish reasons, but their body language and behaviour are all wrong. They're very committed to the bit and they linger for another half hour after I'm gone before buying a dress and leaving, having only ever taken casual notice of my presence.

The fake enforcer is even more confusing because he's not a fake enforcer? My power was dead certain he was a fake at the time, but it's walking that back now. Also ex-military like the others, but now he's reading as a cop pulling some kind of off-duty side gig. He jogs after past-me for a bit, just long enough to make sure that I'm not coming back and then loses interest. I can't figure out why he showed up in the first place. He knew I was there and was looking for me specifically, tipped off by a message over his walkie-talkie, but I don't have enough to go on to figure out who was on the other end.

“I’m not dumb,” I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’re not fooling me into thinking this a coincidence.”

I run through the recordings again. Three vets all showing up armed and in position to corner me is not something that just happens, even if they proceed to do nothing about it. The fact that watching it all happen doesn't reproduce any of the alarm bells warning me of a trap doesn't change that at all. If anything, my power being convinced that this is just an enforcer showing up to chase off a vagrant while two friends go dress shopping makes me a lot more suspicious.

Two hours go by staring at the footage till I'm forced to give up by the impending migraine. I feel like throwing up and I don't know if it's on account of the aura or just the situation I've landed myself in.

I'm not crazy. Those men really were armed and it could not have been a coincidence that they just showed up like that. There's just something wrong with my power and it's fucking with me and I don't know why and someone else out there is fucking with me too. There is no other explanation for why that all just happened and then nothing came of it. Maybe they've all been brainwashed by the Simurgh and that's why my power is breaking down trying to figure out what they're doing.

It's a little bit terrifying that so far that is the only explanation I've come up with that makes any sense that doesn't involve me having a psychotic episode. I guess some lesser kind of power manipulation from someone who isn't an Endbringer but that isn't helpful at all. Saying ‘a wizard did it’ puts me no closer to figuring out what the hell is going on and how I can stop it.

The longer I spend reclining in the office chair and rewatching the footage, the more my power fixates on these tiny little details, obsessing and twisting in loops and locking me into these spirals till I'm ready to scream that it doesn't fucking matter. At least when I'm wrong I can figure it out and move on, instead of stewing in my own bile. My nails start digging into the flesh of my palm as my migraine worsens, because it’s the alternative to clawing out my own eyes.

It's been a little while since the last time I felt this way. I don't like it.

Eventually I’ve had enough. I turn off the monitors, turn off the lights, and lean back in the chair. A rainstorm is kicking up outside. I’m not willing to go out into it for love or money, so I shelter here for the night. All I can do to relieve my headache is rest my eyes until morning, listening to the patter of the rain against the tar roof over my head. I don't get any sleep. I don't think I'd want to leave myself that vulnerable even if I could manage it.

My alarm sounds at 5:20. I curse it out as I force myself to get moving, braving the drizzle and the pre-dawn light. The first bus leaves at 5:45 and the ticket costs me more of the security goon's money than I'd like, but I'll manage. I don't feel any calmer or less paranoid as I get on board, but exhaustion is a close substitute for inner peace. My face is smushed up against the window as I scan over the bus terminal. It's fairly quiet still: a family getting ready for a trip, a church group bound for a convention, a couple college students heading back to Boston, a man carrying a decorative gift bag—

My chest tightens as adrenaline hits. It's the not-boyfriend from the Boardwalk shop carrying the gift bag and walking towards the bus I'm on.

Followed Sarah-self here. Gift bag is a birthday present for nephew. Gait indicates pistol carried under jacket. Travelling to Boston to attend nephew's seventh birthday party.

I ignore my fucking useless power. I can not be stuck here with that man. The bus has two entrances—thank god—and I crawl my way down to the back door, snagging my backpack along the way. I wait in the little stairwell until I hear movement at the front then hop out, taking the moment where he has to be dealing with his ticket to scoot back along the side of the bus out of sight.

There's another bus parked right behind and I slither my way beneath it, dragging my pack alongside me over the wet pavement. It takes far, far too long to make it to the other end, and each engine rumble and hiss makes my heart lurch. It’s hard not to imagine the bus getting underway, and turning me into a red smear against asphalt. It doesn't, although I'm trembling by the time I pull myself out the other end and make a dash for the terminal building. If I can make it there without being observed I can dip out the back, my pursuers none the wiser.

I can't help myself from taking a short glance back at the bus, crouched behind some waiting seats, looking through a crack between them and out the terminal window. It takes me a moment but I manage to spot the man still there, seated near the front reading a book. I squeeze my eyes shut as I duck back down. I've already overused my power and it's just going to tell me some useless garbage about his maybe-fake nephew's birthday party anyway. He came here for me, to make sure I know that I'm being watched and to scare me off from leaving the city. There's no other possible explanation.

Mission fucking accomplished.

---

I'm being followed by shadows all throughout the day. Half the time it's not even my power telling me that, just the feeling of eyes on me or the way my skin crawls tipping me off. The cameras are watching me; they turn to linger on me as I pass them by. They know where I sleep, whoever the fuck they are, and I can’t ever tell if the movement in the corners of my eyes is real or a visual hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and a full-blown migraine.

I know I should stay in crowded areas. A café would have people to make a fuss if I got snatched, or at least to tell the police or the heroes what happened when they showed up too late. I can't manage it. Every time a stranger so much as glances in my direction I flinch, which only makes me stick out more, which makes it more and more real that I’m being watched. Every passerby is a potential threat now and it's only getting worse as the bitter taste of anxiety builds in my mouth with every passing minute.

As the sun begins to set I return to the north of the town because it’s what I know best. I end up down in the industrial parks near the docklands, not too far from the Boardwalk and where I'd been sleeping. I'd been wandering aimlessly as I tried to get away from the crowds. Even without people around my power torments me with a drip-drip-drip of hidden watchers and unseen threats and fucking ghosts every moment I'm not keeping a tight lid on it. It’s sound and light and touch all mixed together like paint into a blob, creating a roar of background noise so bright that I can't actually see.

Until, all of a sudden and without fanfare, I can.

There are two of them. A man and a woman, both unfamiliar, both armed. In a way it's a relief. The feeling of nameless dread has a face now as they move through the dying twilight. It gives my power focus, something real that I can finally latch onto without it going haywire. All those ghosts and hallucinations and half-real people who go to birthday parties with a gun make it freak out, but these are flesh and blood thugs with violent intent.

I break into a sprint, biting down on the impulse to laugh or maybe to vomit. My power blossoms inside me, radiant and joyously clear again, sending tingles across my scalp and over my shoulders. I can't outsprint them. I need obstacles.

Fence not properly secured, broken into by gangs. Never repaired. Segment will give without significant resistance.

I bank sharply to the left, spotting the damaged chain link fence as I'm guided by a power that burns hot enough to dissolve the migraine and anticipates my needs before I even know where I'm going. I hit the fence at full speed, confident at my ability to make it through. Metal bites, tearing cloth and flesh, but I barely slow down, coming through into a run down parking lot—to some old factory? I don't want to know; it'd distract my power. All that matters is I'm still running fast, still reaching out for obstacles to throw behind me.

Drainage ditch leads into a cistern. Too large to service one parking lot. Part of a complex.

The ditch disappears under a culvert, a narrow and rough looking tunnel that at first glance could just be a blind hole, but if it's a system it'll have another exit. They won't know where to head me off and I can get through faster, I'm sure of it. My lungs are already burning, and I skin my palms as I drag myself through the grating sealing it off.

I stumble into the darkness, but I barely slow down. My hand is on one wall to guide me and I put my faith into my power's ability to read into the echoes of my ragged breathing and the dim refracted light from the culvert mouth to keep me from breaking my ankle. I can't slow down, not yet, not when I can finally fucking see again.

I'm out, with nothing more than a few new scrapes and a throbbing sensation from where my hand has been skinned and bloodied. I halt for a moment, blinking into the too-bright light and catching my breath.

There's a man, a new one. No, not a new one, the very first one, the maybe-fake enforcer. My power flashes bright, information faster than can coherently be turned into words as it pushes understanding directly into my brain. They're herding me.

Deep breath. I blink away the tears and I run again. I can find somewhere else, have to find a flaw in the cordon they made. I nearly skid out around a corner, searching for a building to dive into, to come out somewhere they don't expect so I can head back towards people, I just need to—

A brick wall slams into me, a wave of pressure that leaves me dazed, light so intense it hurts and my ears ringing and my eyes and nose burning, my balance all fucked up as I stumble forward, head spinning the whole way down, jolt of pain up my arms as I catch myself on my hands and knees.

They fucking flashbanged me.

Only it's worse than that. I try to push myself up to my feet again but I'm left staggering blind and deaf in the middle of the cloud of pepper spray that lingers behind. I choke on my own breath, mouth boiling and skin burning, unable to do anything more than lurch unsteadily forward for an eternity before I finally feel the hands grab hold of my jacket. They bodily haul me up from where I've fallen again and pin me roughly against a wall. I'm still half-blind, the world a blur of colours and blobby shadows through the burning tears, and I taste blood as I struggle to breathe. I can hear again, sort of, just in time to have the phone held up to my ear.

"You're a difficult girl to track down, Lisa Wilbourn." The man speaking doesn't sound nearly perturbed or upset enough given the circumstances. No one should feel calm or collected right now. "Or is it Sarah Livsey?"

Well, fuck me.

"Lisa," I say, my tongue clumsy and my voice stuffy. I blow my nose, snot mixing with tears and pepper spray.

"As you wish. You have quite the gift, Lisa Wilbourn, and I would like to buy your services."

I choke, something that probably was supposed to be a manic laugh but ends up just a convulsion. At least the other shoe has finally and officially dropped. I can stop being paranoid over what I can't see and instead get paranoid of whatever this is right in front of me.

"Guessing you're not gonna be taking no for an answer," I say. I try for flat and unimpressed but I mostly end up with shaky and bitter and on the verge of tears, real emotional tears instead of the pepper spray ones.

"No, Lisa Wilbourn, I do not think I will. My soldiers will escort you so we can continue this conversation in person."

Call for intimidation, not negotiation. Speech elliptical despite secure line. Usually used for business. Concerned about interception and decryption. Details too sensitive to share over phone.

A stray thought in the back of my head puzzles over how that could possibly be a reasonable concern over his own secure line while the rest of me struggles to contain the rising panic in my chest. The line cuts out and the goons reposition themselves so they can frogmarch me back the way we came. I can't, can't, let them bring me to that meeting.

"I can pay you triple whatever he's paying you if you let me go—" I start but I'm cut off by a rough shake before I can start up a decent patter to begin probing.

"Nothing doing," the man on the left says. "Shut up before we gag you."

I bite my tongue, bringing my breathing back under control. "No, you don't get it, I can—" I yelp in pain as he twists my arm, wrenching my shoulder back sharply to let one of the others do exactly as threatened. They force a wad of fabric into my mouth followed by a cleave gag to keep it in place.

"Should have taken her offer," a new voice calls from ahead of us. I twist my head towards the sound but can't make out much through the mist of tears and mucus. A man, dressed head to toe in a red bodysuit. “My counterproposal: I promise not to beat you senseless if you let her go and come quiet-like.”

Hero.

No shit. Thanks, power.

I yelp again, the sound muffled by the gag as one of the goons grabs me and drags me back through a puddle while the other two move to cover his retreat. I can hear him radioing in a report but it's so thick with codewords that all it does is send my power into a spiralling mess of speculation while the blurry spectacle in front of me plays out.

There is a long, unreal moment where the world turns into a cartoon. The man rushes forward and bodies start flying. Three hard-bitten probably-killers turn into props for a gleeful hero to manhandle. I don't even get held at gunpoint as a hostage: the female soldier comes crashing back into me and my captor, knocking us both down to the ground before the man can get his gun out.

It can't be more than a minute before he's got all three propped up against a wall, disarmed and zip-tied—it took me longer to get through the tunnel—and circles around to my other side to strip out the gag as he helps me sit up.

Move to far side keeps kidnappers in line of sight.

"Hey, I'm Assault. What's your name?"

I hiccup. "Lisa."

"Well, Lisa, I'm going to stay with you and make sure you're going to be all right, okay? How are you feeling right now, Lisa?"

Choice of wording: how are you feeling, not are you okay. Knows Sarah-self is injured. Question to elicit information for first response. Name usage to produce emotional connection.

"P-pepper spray," I manage, hiccuping again as I choke back a sudden sob.

"I can help you with that. Is it okay if I touch you?" I'm left baffled for a moment. I nod, not really trusting my voice.

He goes for what has to be a tinkertech utility belt and retrieves a smudgy blur from it. "Here, lean over." He guides me through the motions, tilting my head one way then the other so he can spray cool liquid over my eyes and nose and face while letting it drip free onto the pavement. I expect it to sting but it only brings relief, carrying off the worst of the lingering burning sensations. He gently and strategically blots at my face to get most of the liquid off then passes over the cloth.

"Don't wipe your eyes for now, but you can blow your nose."

I do that several times till I can sort of breathe through my nose again. I try to pass the cloth back but my fingers are shaking too badly and I just end up dropping it. "I'm s-sorry. I didn't, I didn't mean to—" My voice is shaking almost as badly, the pitch rising and wobbling as I stare mortified at the cloth on the ground. I can feel the tears welling up, threatening to entirely blur out my vision again as if for some fucking reason dropping his handkerchief is the worst fucking thing that's happened all today.

"It's okay, I got more." His hand is on my shoulder again, his voice even and calm and surprisingly gentle. "Deep breaths. Here, look at me." I blink a few times, my gaze pulled upwards.

He's not that old. Not a teenager, but college-aged maybe? Twenty-something? Uniform red armour and matching visor that leaves caramel blond hair free. His fingers are gently probing, taking my pulse, measuring my breaths, looking for injuries. "How do you feel?"

I've barely slept all week, haven't slept at all in the last thirty-six hours, barely managed to eat. I've spent every waking moment fearing that some thing is lurking in every shadow. I was just kidnapped by ex-commandoes. My shoulder is throbbing from the near dislocation. There's a man out there who wants to turn me into some kind of villainous Thinker slave. I'm cold. I haven't had a shower in almost two weeks. I'm soaked in tear gas. I've been homeless for months. I got snot on the superhero that just came to my rescue.

I let my brother die.

I can't hold back the sob as I break down into tears.

He sits there with me, arm around my shoulders as I cry myself out. My face twists into a rictus as the ugly tears flow, occasionally choking on the sobs. I can't say it's a relief the way my head is throbbing painfully at the end, but I do feel a bit emptier inside. Some of the tension is gone.

Assault takes the time I spend uselessly crying to inspect my injuries, turning up nothing worse than a few superficial scrapes and cuts and the wrenched shoulder, which grudgingly I have to admit is a good thing. A few minutes later more people show up, several armoured PRT agents and another cape, although thank fucking god I've gotten control of myself before they do. I feel mortified enough as is.

Assault waves them over towards the soldiers, still largely insensate or at least passive. "Take care of them and do a followup sweep, I'm going to stay with her. I'll get a report done later. Someone pass me a first aid kit?"

They don't protest, staying long enough to get the most important details before escorting off the kidnappers. I feel a hysterical giggle coming on, the nervous edge escaping me despite trying to bite down on it.

"They just let you do whatever the hell you want like that?" I ask, staring a little disbelievingly at the departing crowd, leaving only a few to do crime scene stuff. Even those are basically ignoring me and Assault as they work around us.

"Perks of being a hero," he says as he cleans out and bandages the worst of my injuries. "Lisa, do you have anyone we can get in touch with?" I shake my head. He looks completely unsurprised by this. I must look even more homeless than usual today. "No place to stay?" Another shake.

He takes a moment to absorb that. After some thought he asks, "You want to go grab something to eat?"

I'm torn. I feel slightly ill at the stress and receding adrenaline and at the same time more than slightly starving. More than anything I think I don't want to be alone right now. I give a jerky nod. "Yeah," I say, my voice coming out in a whisper as my throat is tighter than I would have liked.

He helps me up to my feet, matching my pace as he leads the way. I steal glances up at him every so often when I hope he's not looking at me.

Breaking protocol to remove victim away from crime scene without escort or other reporting. Positioned defensively, scanning surroundings. Concerned about Sarah-self's well-being. Suspicious about kidnapping; suspects cape involvement. Food to ameliorate concerns; build rapport before asking questions.

At least I'm not being kidnapped this time, and he isn't lying about getting me something to eat.

Fifteen minutes and some light, pointless running commentary from him about his life later and we're sitting in a park together, more food in front of me than I think I've had all week put together. I still feel a tinge of nausea but the smell has reawakened my appetite, and he's managed to set it up between us in a way that forces me to pace myself if I don't want to be constantly in his personal space or get in his way.

The fact that he's done this before enough to have a pattern down is kind of sad.

He talks while we eat together. I'm only half listening to the words but the vibes get through despite that. He tells me about how he found me by hearing the flashbang go off and about how his powers work. He talks about how the kidnappers have been secured and that they're back in custody at headquarters now, and how Armsmaster—freaking Armsmaster, a dude who lives in posters, not real life—is working to sweep the area for accomplices or any other evidence they left behind. He tells me that he'll make sure that one way or another I don't have to spend the night alone.

He keeps talking until between the food and the words I'm feeling not quite so on the edge of a panic attack. I can feel his focus shift as I take a deep breath to brace myself, sipping at my milkshake.

"Think you’re up to answering a few questions?"

I don't look up. If I have learned anything over the past few months it's that the cops are not there to help people like me. Talking to them only ever makes the situation worse. On the other hand I don't know how I possibly could make this situation worse. It's not getting better on its own, that's for fucking sure.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Do you know who those people were, Lisa?" he asks, his voice neither harsh nor cold but lacking his earlier levity.

I stare at the table. My fingers twist and I fight down the tightness growing in my chest as I force myself to think back enough to prod my power into activity.

Trained reactions, experience with firearms. Had killed before. Ex-military.

Nothing that I hadn't picked up on during the chase and the last few encounters I've had. My power is stuck on repeat, the lack of new data making it difficult to avoid spiralling. I try a few angles, dredging up details from memory to try to spark some new path. Something about their mysterious boss on the phone and how he might be connected to them. Nothing.

I shake my head. "Ex-military people. I—" My voice cracks and I give up on speaking to take another sip, letting the milkshake soothe my throat. "They've been following me for days. I've seen at least one of them before, and there were others that weren't here. When they finally caught me they put me on a phone with a man, said they were his soldiers."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to filter out every other sensation as I recall the man's voice, every word I could recall, anything I might have picked up in the background.

Hires reliable mercenaries, experienced ex-military professionals. Criminal enterprise; not gang-related. Too expensive for shakedowns and low level drug dealing. Very wealthy. Wanted Sarah-self for power. Collecting Thinkers.

Well yeah, no fucking duh. Why the fuck is my power being so useless? Lack of data? Because I'm exhausted? Scared? The new and exciting form of the bullshit I've been dealing with for days now?

"Do you think it might be related to why you don't have a home to go back to?" Assault asks and I look up at him with what I have to imagine is an awfully bleak expression. It's not a hard leap to make, given how incredibly suspicious this is. There are only so many reasons a teenager would be out on the streets, and not many of them involve ex-commandos. I look away.

This is going to happen again, isn't it? The kidnappers aren't going to talk and I'm going to walk away from this and another group of them will be there to snatch me, this time without a local hero to pull me out of the fire. The next time I go to sleep I'm going to wake up bound and gagged in a basement somewhere.

I really don't want to admit to everything that's happened. They'll get my parents involved again and I'll be back where I started. The homelessness itself wasn't so bad, almost tolerable, but a week and a half of this and I just need it to stop. I just want to…

I don't want to think about it. Can't think about it. I can't, just… can't. Not again. I won't. It's just… I'm—

I'm just so tired.

"Yeah, I think so." I close my eyes. "I…" Fuck. "I have powers," I say, my voice dropping again to a whisper. "He wanted to use them."

Assault's hand comes to rest on mine, the one not holding my shake, and I open my eyes again. His expression is hard to read perfectly without a good view of his eyes but he looks sad.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Knows gaining powers was traumatic. Similar experience. Knows others with similar experiences. Aware of psychological damage that can result from acquiring powers.

I grimace. "I can't go home."

Assault squeezes my hand. "You won't have to."

That doesn't seem like something he can promise. I narrow my eyes. "I'll know if you try." There must be something in how I say it, because that gets a short laugh out of him. I want to glare at him for it, for being so utterly awful at reading the atmosphere, but instead I feel my lips quirking upwards as well.

"Your powers will tell you?" The question doesn't sound mocking or sarcastic and honestly is eminently reasonable given what powers can do. That doesn't make me feel any less suspicious.

"They might," I say. I take a deep breath and another sip of my milkshake. It can't be his call. Some Protectorate lawyer would be in charge of that, right? "And if the lawyers and your boss say that your hands are tied?"

"No one is going to make you go back to somewhere that made you trigger," he says, very firmly. That still doesn't feel like it's his call to make.

Because it isn't, I belatedly realise. I feel a rising embarrassment at how long it took to put that together. This isn't an official promise he's authorised to make on behalf of the Protectorate but that isn't stopping him from making it. Strangely that makes me feel better about it than if he were speaking on behalf of the PRT.

I stare off through him, my gaze unfocused. "They're going to try again if I just leave."

"Yeah, probably," he says. His voice is back to that soft, serious tone that he must actively practise. "Living on the streets isn't safe for anyone, and you've got half a dozen things making it more dangerous."

I don't know if he's giving me time to think or if he's plotting how to make the pitch I know has to be coming. I squeeze my eyes shut then drain half my remaining milkshake in one long go. It's not as much of a mistake as I thought it would be. All right. I can't just sit here forever, hoping the world fixes itself around me. Deep breath, then I meet his gaze straight on.

"What options do I have?"

I can tell his eyebrows shoot up from the way it tugs on his face and he gives me a broad smile as I catch him by surprise. I feel inordinately pleased by that.

"I can think of a couple that you've got. You're not under arrest or being detained over this, so after you make a statement you can find somewhere to go back to or head out on your own. If you decide to do that, someone back at headquarters might try to hold on to you while they search for any relations or persuade you to stay, but I doubt you'd be kept for long. Risky to do that with unknown parahumans that aren't obviously posing a threat.

"Alternatively, we can find a judge to get you an order for protective custody while we sort out who should be your legal representative. That would require either getting a guardian or state custody eventually, but the emergency order could go through immediately with 'exigent need' while they figure out something longer term. I'd say your case is such a gimme that they'd go send someone to knock on a judge's door at two in the morning if that's what it took. If nothing else it'd buy you time to figure out what you want to do, and they might turn up something about your attackers while you waited."

He pauses for a moment, pursing his lips. "Or you could apply to join the Wards. New orphans and kids from bad situations are common enough that there are ways to get it started yourself, and have a legal rep appointed for you while you jump through the hoops. You'd need a more permanent guardian eventually, but that would be a tomorrow problem, and there are ways to avoid getting family involved.

"It's the option that probably has the most security going forward. The Wards aren't the only option either, although they're likely the best. Some corporate teams have youth branches but none of them operate out of Brockton Bay. All of them kind of suck in one way or another. In either case you'd need to figure out how to handle your legal situation, but the only option that avoids that is heading out on your own again."

I give him a searching look, a little skeptical he'd be willing to just let me wander off into the night like that.

Cautious. Carefully choosing words. Building rapport. Does not believe restraint of Sarah-self is reliably possible. Doesn't want to alienate Sarah-self with aggressive hard-sell.

That's probably him being overly generous given I was just clearly in the process of being successfully kidnapped, or maybe he just saw what it took to bring me in during that kidnapping and assumes the PRT wouldn't be willing to go as far.

I close my eyes again, massaging my temples. The migraine is definitely starting to come back after the adrenaline-fuelled hiatus or whatever it was.

Fuck, I must be on the edge of a complete meltdown as even my power seems to be pathetically begging me to not try and make this work on my own. It hasn't so much as given me a hint of why this is a terrible idea. Not that my crying wasn't a hint about my confidence there already.

"If I were to come with you and get that protective order and figure everything out later, I could still walk out again? Any time I want?"

That easy smile of his creeps across his lips, although he does his best not to make it too obvious. He's sure he has me. Loathe as I am to admit it, he's probably right. Just walking out there when there's probably another team of goons waiting to swoop in… I push the thought down before it swallows me up.

"I'd stick with you the whole way. I'll escort you out of the building any time you ask."

I give him another hard look. "Really."

"Really," he says, and he means it. I don't need to tap my power to figure out that and when I do anyway I actually feel a little unnerved. He's not just confident that he'd do it, he's confident he'd succeed. Unshakeably certain in a way that I have to stop myself from trying to pick apart further. It'd only make my migraine worse.

I take in a deep breath, letting it out slowly through my nose. The lingering effects of the pepper spray have left it swollen and raw, and I end up making a weird honking noise. Assault makes a very admirable attempt not to laugh and mostly succeeds.

"Well, I guess that's my plan after I make that statement." I sigh ruefully. "I should have said my parents were dead."

"Nah, best to let the truth come out. They'd ask for your social, or look up your birth records and figure it out eventually. If there's going to be a giant mess anyway then get ahead of it and fight it on your own terms instead of getting blindsided later." He stands up, gathering our trash and stuffing it into the bag. "You want to head down now or take a bit longer to gather yourself?"

I feel a little more alive after eating and formulating a plan, even a shitty one. Enough to at least give a try at being a bit more myself. I arch an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure that you've already ignored a few calls to report in. Don't you have other things to be doing than playing counsellor?"

He gives me a broad, gallic shrug. "Can't think of anything more important than this on anything but an Endbringer day. Being a new cape's hard and I wish someone had been there for me when I triggered. I know it's been a while for you, but better late than never."

The corners of my vision blur as I look away. My throat feels tight, like I'm coming down with something. Like…

I–

It takes me a moment to get my voice back under control and I have to blink a few times before I can see again. Fuck, see if I ever try to sass anyone again.

"We can head in. The street lamps are already on and I'm really feeling how long the day's been."

He claps his hands together. "I'll get us a ride."

It turns out I wasn't lying about feeling the day. I don't even manage to make it to the Protecterate HQ. A few minutes after I take my seat in the van and I'm wobbling, head nodding briefly before I finally topple over to the side.

---

My eyes open to an unfamiliar ceiling above me. Beige textured plaster that doesn't feel like a hospital or hotel room, but I'm in a bed. My limbs are tangled up in sheets, and I blink into the late-morning light streaming through the window. I'm dressed but not in any of my own clothes, instead in a set of women's pyjamas several sizes too large for me.

I have a very brief moment of utter panic before I see the note.

Lisa,
Figured you shouldn't be making big life decisions while tired enough to fall asleep in a PRT van. You were masked up coming into the building so don't worry about that. I asked Battery to get you changed into some of her old PJs so we could launder your clothes. Take a hot shower, get dressed, and head down to the front desk and have them call me. I got my schedule reworked so I could do paperwork and in-house tasks all day, so I'll be around. We'll head to the cafeteria to eat and then we can take your statement and get started orienting you.

Assault

Next to his signature was a little drawing of himself from the shoulders up, giving a toothy grin and a thumbs up. Below that is a little schematic map showing the way to the front desk.

Letter carefully worded. Reference to other cape to establish network, reassure Sarah-self a woman handled clothes without direct statement to avoid discomfort. Personally drew signature art. Art inspired by representative styles in popular media. Fan of imported Aleph anime.

That was… kind of sweet? Thoughtful at the very least. I tug at the waistband of the loose pyjama bottoms. I still have my underwear on, so I wasn't even stripped fully naked. I give a scan around the room, spotting the neatly folded pile of clothing topped with the addition of a new set of underwear and a domino mask.

That really shouldn't be enough to disguise my identity, but apparently it works? There has to be something that protects cape identities more than just the disguises and costumes that sometimes border on notional more than anything else. Facial structure, build, fingerprints, voice, identifying marks—all that should make it not hard to piece together an identity, to say nothing of the problems the Wards would have, but still most secret identities seem to remain secret.

It's as good enough of a distraction from my life as any, and I'm still turning the idea over in my head as I step into the shower. A shower that is by any standard absolutely heavenly. I slowly inch the heat upwards till I have it as hot as I can tolerate, the water turning my skin red and washing all the aches out of my muscles along with weeks of accumulated grime.

Ninety percent of material dead skin, sebum, and soil. Remainder majority putrescent biomatter, fecal material, and inorganic biowaste. Less than one percent other inorganic toxins, cadmium, drug residue…

I choose to see my power's habit of reporting in explicit detail about the exact contents and nature of filth for once as a silver lining; it's informing me exactly how much cleaner I am by the end. Although really, cadmium? Fucking Brockton Bay is a literal fucking superfund site in the making.

I spend the better part of an hour soaking up the heat. Between my first real night's sleep in over a week and being gloriously, blissfully clean I actually feel like a real human being by the time I'm dressed. Then I gather up my things to head down to the front desk of the PRT building.

I again fail to make it to my destination, although I don't fall asleep on the way this time. Assault intercepts me at the elevators, flashing another of his inexhaustible supply of cheeky grins. "Perfect timing. I was just getting off for lunch."

He takes me directly down to the cafeteria for my second full meal in as many weeks, filling the air with easy conversation deliberately designed, my power informs me, to keep me relaxed and not thinking too hard about yesterday or everything I'm going to have to do today. It also informs me exactly what I'm eating, which is a little gross but I'm too hungry to care. Apparently it's going to be one of those days.

Besides chattering away Assault surreptitiously deflects several other people who would have otherwise approached either him or myself. Giving me space, I guess, before the oncoming formal statement.

When he finally stands up it's to ask, "You like hot chocolate?" I snort. "Is the Space Pope reptilian?" It's not quite an Aleph anime but I suspect he'll appreciate the reference anyhow, and I need him to remember that he promised to break the law for me just in case it comes to that.

The easy laugh says he does appreciate the reference and he returns a minute later with an insulated mug.

"You'll want this."

He's probably right, seeing as I really can't be dragging my feet for much longer. Might as well go see the executioners now.

There's a man in a three-piece suit waiting for us outside the interrogation room. He's only a few inches taller than me, with dark hair and eyes and a thick walrus moustauche.

"Ms. Doe?" I shoot a glance up at Assault but I don't get an answer from either him or my power quick enough. "I'm Hector Aguilar Castillo. I work with the Youth Guard in Brockton Bay. I am not part of this investigation, but I understand that you may be working with the local Protectorate in future and if you are comfortable with it I would like to be present to your interview as an observer."

My power doesn't turn up anything obviously suspicious other than a lawyer wanting to do their job. Might as well rip the bandaid off early. I nod.

"It's fine," I say and I step into what looks more like a conference room than the expected mirrored interrogation chamber.

Which is good, as two detectives, Assault, the YG rep, and myself make for quite a crowd. I get a we're doing all we can and a thank you for agreeing to speak with us and all the other preambles before they settle in with the first real questions. A set of mug shots come out.

"Are these the people who assaulted you, Miss Doe?" Then when I nod and say yes, "Can you tell us about them?"

The photographs are put back in a binder but I squeeze my eyes shut to block them out anyways, only now in the darkness I feel like my balance is pitching forward. My fingers curl, my palm stinging again as my breathing comes short and I can feel the pressure in my chest and—

I open my eyes to look down at where Assault's hand is resting on my own. Deep breath, Lisa.

"I'm sorry. I only saw them today—" I stop. Right, it's not today anymore, and yesterday wasn't all one day either seeing as I hadn't slept at all that night.

"I mean, I don't know who they are and I don't recognise them from anywhere else, but they or people they work with were following me for days," I say. I can feel the way my heartrate is spiking, notice every time I start fidgeting my chair.

Sarah-self is experiencing elevated levels of cortisol, increased heart rate and blood pressure. Physiological reaction consistent with acute stress response.

I try to clamp down on my power.

"What makes you believe that they had been following you?"

I try very hard to clamp down on my power as I start explaining the last few days I've had, ending with actually walking through the attack itself. It doesn't get any easier. The only positive things I can say about the experience is that it's fast and efficient and I have hot chocolate at the end.

Which is three things and more than I had expected, so I guess there's that.

At the end they thank me and tell me they'll be in touch and ask me to reach out if there's anything else I can think of. The YG man gives his condolences and gives me a card with his contact information if I need to reach out for anything, although I'm not quite sure what that might be or what he would have in mind. Then Assault leads me numbly off to some other room where I can sit down and have a second cup of hot chocolate.

He sits down across from me with a grave look. "So, Futurama, huh?"

I don't know what it is, maybe just the incongruence of his expression or the emotional rollercoaster of the past few days, but I dissolve into teary, sniffly giggles. This is the second time in two days, maybe the third even, and I am getting very tired of this. At least I managed to keep it together till I was safe-ish.

"I've never actually watched it," I admit. "I had, um, a few friends—" brother "—who were really into it, and I just kind of picked up some of the catchphrases through osmosis."

"Well, you're in luck today then," he says, dramatically producing his tablet and setting it up on the table. "Because I just happen to have the entire show handy and we have some time to burn before you have to be anywhere else. You are in for a treat."

And that is how I end up watching a probably pirated cartoon while drinking hot chocolate with a cape in the middle of the PRT building after almost getting kidnapped by a psychotic supervillain's henchmen.

It's… nice, if a little weird. Somewhere through the second episode I even get my power to quiet down about my own anxiety and the potential dangers around me. It's acting a little bit more normal. It's easier to quiet down now that I'm no longer having to actively relive the past few days. Better still it's not split between incoherent garbage and terrifyingly clear and concise information, both of which are not at all like its normally meandering revelations.

I feel together. Presentable. A little more like myself? Something approximating that at least. It's just in time to go into my next interview and this time I find myself walking into a room to be confronted with the assembled wall of people made up of Youth Guard Representative Hector Aguilar Castillo, PRT East Northeast Director Emily Piggot, and friggin' Armsmaster.

In retrospect I don't know what else I had been expecting to see.

Still. Yikes.

Notes:

There are a lot of stories that push Taylor into the Wards, but Lisa doesn't often get the same treatment even though the two are about as averse to authority and being on a team at the start of Worm. I had some ideas about why that might happen and what chaos that might create as it goes along and here we are. Spoiler: it's going to be a giant trainwreck for everyone involved.

A huge thank you to etherealDesign, without whom this probably never would have gotten finished let alone posted. You've been a delight.

Edit 12 Nov 2025: Hey, look at that, there was another editting pass at the start to this. I think it reads cleaner now. Many thanks to ether for the help <3

(I'll put a note in 2.5 when it goes up as well.)

Chapter 2: Breach 1.2

Director Piggot hasn’t been buried by paperwork yet. It'll probably take another week. The reports, schedules, and planning charts she’s fielding already cover most of the horizontal spaces in the room, floor included. She's watching me as I walk in with a marksman’s focus and an expression that I could describe as cool at best.

She’s flanked by Aguilar Castillo, who looks very small with his notepad and pen as Armsmater looms over them both standing on the Director’s other side. He brings a certain unreality to the scene that I still have trouble wrapping my head around. It's like I got called into the principal's office and waiting for me there is my dad and Kristen Stewart.

I guess I’m not surprised that they’re all here for me; a potential Ward recruit is probably the kind of thing you clear your schedules for. I’m also far more interesting than paperwork.

"Good afternoon, Miss Doe," says Director Piggot as I sit down. The turn of phrase piques my interest; I'm certain that I gave my full alias to Assault last night during some of the conversations over food. "Assault has explained your situation to us, as well as your interest in joining the Wards."

Assessing Sarah-self. Sensitive material removed from office; some knowledge of powers gained from Assault's report.

No hesitation; no indicators of dissembling while speaking. Unaware of alias. All paperwork provided with case number as identification to preserve civilian identity.

I glance over at Assault. Can he just withhold information like that? Obviously he can, although I'm not sure if he's allowed to, and it comes as a surprise either way. I had just assumed it was a given that he'd pass on everything to his superiors, and until now had never even considered that he might not.

"That's right," I say, my attention snapping back to the Director. "Best of a bad situation."

"It is the best option for most young parahumans. We are always very eager to induct new members of the Wards to ensure that they have access to the support and resources they need during difficult years," she begins, leaning forward in her chair. She’s looking at me with an intensity that glues my attention back to her in return. She's obese but something's off about the way she moves; her hands move with the finesse and confidence of a boxer even though all she’s doing is reordering the papers littering her desk. Her makeup's got a subtle professional quality to it and the navy blue jacket she's wearing is definitely tailored. Nothing about Piggot lines up right, except for the crisp lines of her suit.

It’s hard to focus on what I’m seeing, though, while my power is all but shouting over her.

Canned speech, rehearsed to cover distaste for most Wards. Foremost does not want villain groups gaining new resources.

That's not all that damning, actually. Don't know why my power is so excited but it's nice to know that I'm going to be spotting any really obvious lies.

Distaste for Wards stems from broader distaste for capes. Distaste for capes engendered by experience with capes; injury by capes; disability a result of capes; former PRT agent until injured by cape.

A little more damning. Who actually does the a gay killed my dad and now I'm homophobic thing? She's still talking and I try to force myself to pay attention.

"However, there are a number of topics that must be addressed before going through the details of membership and induction. There is the matter of your power, your parents or guardians, and any prior criminal acts or vigilantism that you may have been involved in."

Acid etches an uncomfortably sour feeling in my gut and I'm possessed by an urge to just stand up and walk right back out the door. That sounds an awful lot like a list of all the things I don’t want to talk about right now. I'm not exactly surrounded by friendly faces either; even Assault is looking pretty subdued and restrained at the moment. The only thing that keeps me in my seat is the memory of a voice that slithers its way through my thoughts.

You're a difficult girl to track down, Lisa Wilbourn.

It feels like there is an entire cluster of spiders crawling over my neck and down one side of my back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I flash my very best self-assured smile. "Right. Where do we start? With me having a conversation with a lawyer?"

"Wherever you're most comfortable," Aguilar Castillo says, stepping in before Piggot can answer. "This is just a preliminary interview before we begin the formal application process."

It was a hell of a crew to get together for a compatibility check. Enough to make me suspicious, Ward prospect or no.

“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights, first? Something about how I don’t gotta self-incriminate or—”

“Miss Doe,” Piggot interrupts. She sounds tired but there’s nothing in the glare she gives me that looks like she's ready to bend or break. “I am not a police officer. I am a peacekeeper. I cannot begin to express how uninterested I am in whatever pockets you’ve picked or parking tickets you’ve decided not to pay. I am here to see if you might have a place in our city’s Wards team—regardless of any crimes you may or may not have committed—to help us keep the peace. It would be in your best interest to be open with us about any possible legal trouble you might have dodged since your trigger event, but if I was interested in locking you up over misdemeanors, this conversation would have ended already.”

“Damn.”

As righteous self-indulgence goes that was kind of a banger, although the fact that she's sent people to hyperjail before does weaken her case a little. It's true it wasn't for picking pockets, though, and I haven't tried to take over the world yet.

"Then I guess I’ll start talking until someone makes me stop," I say. All these teeth need to get pulled eventually anyways. "My power is, um, information gathering."

I run my hand through my hair, brushing it back behind my ear in lieu of wincing at how clumsy that sounded. I haven't found a way yet to explain my power out loud that doesn't make me sound either ridiculous or super sketchy.

"I can make inferences from very incomplete data. Guessing passwords by looking around a room for clues, or figuring out how to distract security," I say, before realising that makes me sound even more criminal. I should have thought this through in advance, but of course the first things that would come to mind are unfortunately the things I've been using it for. I can use it for more than petty theft and wire fraud, I'm sure of it, but I don't think Mrs. I-Am-The-Law needs to hear about that. "Or working out someone's profession by looking at how they walk or figuring out how many people were at a meeting and what they were doing by looking at what's around afterwards. So hey, hi, I’m Sherlock Holmes."

I hesitate. The looks they're giving me are all a little dubious and I can't blame them. I managed to make that both vague and suspicious, and probably unimpressive besides. I really need to fix that before they decide to show me the door. I also need to keep the Sherlock thing in mind as that is probably what I've been searching for. Way less shady sounding.

"Maybe an example?" I ask. When no one runs across the room to stop me, I relax. I reach for my power and let it dig deep, glancing around the room for something to spark the inspiration. The way the Director shifts in discomfort catches my eye.

Movement to reduce pressure. Experiencing moderate pain; chronic health problems related to injury.

Pain localised under the ribs along the back, indicates kidney pain. Kidney function impaired. Requires dialysis. Typical life expectancy 5-10 years after initiation of treatment.

"You've got less than a decade and are still working? Hey, isn’t Panacea in town…?"

Body tensed. Does not trust paranormal healing. Suspicions related to original injury. Health—

I click my mouth shut and shut down my power hard in the same instant as I realise where that's heading. Fuck, I still need her to sign off on all this, so she probably wasn’t the best person to risk pissing off. I glance around, hoping to see anything else that can serve as a distraction that isn't also probably tied to interpersonal secrets or literally classified. I latch on to Assault and his letter from earlier.

Matched outfits and names with Battery; later debut, not original pairing. Chose name to exasperate Battery. Romantic relationship with Battery.
Confident in ability to escort Sarah-self safely from PRT headquarters. Battery had previous long-running rivalry with parahuman mercenary Madcap before disappearance, Madcap/Assault powers match despite differing combat styles.

I startle, eyes going wide. "You were Madcap?"

My voice is squeakier than I'd like but it does have the desired effect in providing a distraction. Everyone else in the room looks just as surprised as I feel right now.

"He was, and that I believe is a sufficient demonstration of what at first impression appears to be a substantial Thinker power," Armsmaster cuts in, probably wanting to change the subject before he's next under the microscope. "We would appreciate it if you kept that information confidential."

Assault né Madcap treats me to a lopsided grin, looking a lot more pleased than upset at my realisation. I bite my tongue to control my power and avoid going down that rabbit hole. "Quickest I've heard of powers being crossed off the list since Clock. My old nom de guerre is a bit of an open secret in the right circles, but you don't go around saying those out loud. It’s a good rule of thumb to let a cape’s past names stay in the past."

I nod slowly, forcing my attention back to the Director. She's schooled the surprise from her expression and is back to a carefully sculpted neutrality. Except back isn't the right word for it as she hadn't looked nearly this guarded when I walked in.

Intentional flat affect. Trained habitual reaction to unexpected danger. Will not forget that she was Sarah-self's first target.

I stiffen in my seat because the alternative is squirming in it. Just an absolute masterclass of a first impression there, Sarah-self.

Assault's comment about dealing with my parents comes back to me. I need to take control and keep this all on my terms. My nails bite into my palm as I reel my thoughts back in and suppress my power. Gotta move the conversation along before I dig myself in deeper, lose control, say something that might get me sent back home.

I take a deep breath.

"Right, my lips are sealed about the Madcap thing, and also I don’t care that much. I can sign an NDA to that effect if you want. Next, my parents? I haven't seen my parents in the past six months, I think, not since I left home." Saying I ran away from home sounds… childish. Doing it just as winter was starting had not been my best move ever but the alternative was staying and that was a non-starter at that point. "That was a few months after I triggered. They were partially responsible for my trigger event, and saw my power as something to be exploited and controlled afterwards."

I'm not sure if I believe any of what I just said. It sounds plausible enough, probably. Anything that might get them out of my life is worth putting out there. It also lands right where I wanted it as everyone arrayed in front of me frowns or at least looks grave as they mercifully let me move on from the power demonstration.

"There was a concern that would be the case," the Director says, glancing over towards Aguilar Castillo. "What is the Youth Guard's opinion?"

"There will have to be an investigation, but given the circumstances I am comfortable allowing Ms. Doe to enroll under the supervision of a duly appointed legal representative. There is an imminent threat to her life. A parahuman gangster attempted to kidnap her yesterday, and without protection there is no reason to believe he won’t try again tomorrow. She lacks adequate accommodations. These extenuating circumstances, combined with a credible accusation of parental abuse or neglect is grounds for a waiver of their involvement, provided she is willing to give an affidavit to that effect."

“To play the devil’s advocate, I’d like to ask why we’re taking her word at face value—” Armsmaster begins, before Aguilar leans over and mutters something into his ear. The superhero promptly shuts the hell up with a quickly muttered, “Right.”

I didn’t need my power to figure out what the Youth Guard rep had been saying sotto voce while they’d both been staring right at me. Just look at her, you moron, or some cleaner variation of the same: I’d lived with my folks, I got powers, and I’d chosen to live rough during winter rather than stick around them. My hair was ratty, my skincare routine was dirt, and I was currently wearing the borrowed plainclothes of the tiniest PRT agent on staff because I literally did not have anything to wear that wasn’t saturated with pepper spray.

I must’ve looked pathetic.

"I can do that," I say through grit teeth.

Apparently that’s enough for Piggot to put the point aside until later.

"Now,” she asks, “Miss Doe, have you previously been out in costume or conducted any vigilante work?"

"No, I haven't made a costume or come up with a name or gone outside in my pyjamas or anything else even vaguely like cape stuff. I was kinda trying to avoid drawing the attention of capes, ha ha, which as you can see went great for me."

"That will make branding easier, and we'll have a lot of flexibility with a power like hers," Armsmaster says, obliviously, his fingernails running through his beard. I have to look away from him before I start fishing around for how he's assessing my power and its uses. Instead I turn to Piggot, who provides even more unpleasant things to think about than Armsmaster and his blatant scheming.

"Have you ever knowingly committed, aided, or abetted a felony?" the Director asks.

Well that's an unfair question. I close my eyes for a moment. I really hate the thought of just handing them a rapsheet, but I like the thought of being accused of hiding it later on even less. And the thought of going back to sleeping in an alleyway and waiting to get hauled off to some supervillain's basement...

"I have no convictions or any outstanding warrants," I begin. My answer garners a chilly reaction and a twinge of irritation hits me. Who are they to be judging me about this of all things? I try to bury the feeling. I can do this if I’m honest and forthright and keep the conversation running on my own terms.

"I haven't committed any violent crimes or anything beyond what you’d expect from being poor and homeless. Vagrancy, panhandling, making a police officer feel disrespected." I try to keep my tone from being snappish. Especially as I feel compelled to add, "And a little petty larceny and boosting a few credit cards, enough to keep me from starving or freezing."

Probably enough to be multiple felonies if someone really wanted to throw the book at me, which really says very little about me and a lot about how fucked up the legal system is. At least I’d never, you know, assaulted PRT officers or heroes, which is more than you could say for at least one other person in the room.

Piggot doesn't react which is… good, maybe? My power whispers that she's seen a lot worse. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as she continues on with her questions.

"Have you ever used your power in the course of coercing someone with force or violence, or making physical contact with a person in an unwanted manner, or directly altering or influencing their psychological or emotional state?"

"Never." I shake my head. Although now I'm going to be thinking about all the ways I could use my power to do that if I got creative.

"Have you ever used your power in the course of making threats of the same?" I give a second denial and she lets out a breath, flashing a thin shark-toothed smile my way. It isn’t reassuring. "Then we can rule out assault with a parahuman ability. That would be the hardest charge to brush away. Did the credit card fraud involve the use of your power?"

I nod. God, this sucks. I'd say running back into the night is slowly looking more and more attractive, but just thinking about it makes my chest feel tight.

"Did you use it to guess passwords, CVCs, or other similar financial or authentication information?"

"Guessing PIN numbers, and evaluating marks. Figuring out where they keep their wallets and when they won't notice them going missing." I hesitate, trying to push down the feeling of being a butterfly pinned to a card. "Usually for five hundred or less in a withdrawal, and never more than a thousand. ATM withdrawal limits are a bit— er, a bit lucky for them, right?”

"The ones under two-hundred and fifty will be misdemeanour charges on their own, although power usage can be an aggravating factor," she says, mostly to herself. She thinks something through, then asks, "Did you use your powers exclusively to gather financial information and locate objects, not to influence or interact with any person directly?"

“How the hell should I know that?” I ask, before remembering where I am. Holy shit, this woman might be my boss soon, I would have to find a way to keep my damn mouth shut. "Um. Does figuring out their PIN by figuring out what their birthday is count, or figuring out where their wallet is by looking at the lines of their clothes?"

I still feel a little petty, but it turns out to be a legitimate question. Thus begins a long series of clarifications courtesy of Aguilar Castillo. Piggot then proceeds to grill me on specifics of the larger amounts. For a former field agent she is weirdly familiar with the nuances of identify theft and various criminal fraud statutes. By the end I really just want to let the subject of my crimes drop, but I've saved the most important bit for last.

"There's one last thing," I say once she seems ready to stop her questioning. She purses her lips and even Armsmaster is openly frowning, but I push forward. "Before I left home, my parents had found out I had powers. My father pressured me to use my powers to break into computer systems and spy on coworkers and business rivals and things like that. I didn’t want to. It's part of why I left."

The turnaround is spectacular. Piggot looks as though I've handed her the best news she's had all day. She examines me like a jeweller turning over an antique diamond under a lens.

Criminal charges provide means to sideline parents and gain further control. Parents a significant obstacle when handling minors.

So that’s why she’s looking like a kid on Christmas morning. Well shit, call me Santa. That’ll definitely reduce the chances that I have to deal with my parents. It just comes at the low, low price of handing Director Piggot a knife to stick in my kidneys. Lovely.

"We can work with this," she says. "We've made far worse work before. You'll be taking a plea deal in exchange for probation, to be served as part of the Wards. Nothing but the terms of the probation will be on any of your Wards records, any and all further details being sealed in compliance with the usual privacy regulations involving capes and minors working for the PRT. As part of the deal the probation itself can be expunged when you turn eighteen assuming no further infractions."

You'll be taking a plea deal. The way she phrases it rubs me the wrong way, like I’ve replaced one set of controlling asshole parents with another. I can't say I'm exactly thrilled with being on the hook for a whole lot of stuff that ranges from pretty minor to frankly justifiable to not even really my fault.

"Could we make the leash a little bit more obvious? Maybe incorporate it into my costume design?" I expect a rebuke but while both of the men flanking her do display varying degrees of disapproval Piggot herself is unfazed.

"Setting aside that, contrary to what you believed, this is a matter of multiple serious felony charges, it is true that we will be holding you to a higher standard than the average teenage girl. To be frank, you have no idea how dangerous your powers are. You will learn. This is an organisation for heroes, Miss Doe, and we do not take the trust that the public has placed in us lightly." I open my mouth to call that out but she cuts me off. "You may call it hypocritical BS, but consider. What would the world look like if our heroes didn’t even pretend to aspire to any higher principles? Without being accountable to the law and the public, what would ensure that heroes act with any more integrity than Empire 88?"

I break eye contact with her, pressing my lips into a thin line and letting my gaze wander over the office. I look at the piles of paper stacked everywhere, at the reports and requests and maps and a thousand other official and unofficial documents that are starting to break free of their organizational confines to colonise the corkboards and whiteboards on her wall.

Papers neatly stacked, organised into sections. High document turnover rate. Lacking personal touches or family mementos. Workaholic despite health problems, sacrificing other aspects of life. Left her friends behind in the PRT strike forces to move to Brockton Bay. Left her family behind in her hometown. Lonely.

Literally working herself into an early grave, when she could no doubt get a medical discharge if only she’d ask. She can't be making all that much money as a civil servant either, which means she probably actually believes what she’s saying. At least, she believes something similar enough that my bullshit detector isn't going off. I'm definitely not getting anywhere arguing with her, especially with how the prospect of keeping me on a tight leash itself must be very attractive.

I sigh and ask, "What kind of probation terms are we talking about?"

She reacts neither to my outburst nor to me backing down. "I would not make any definitive statements without a clear understanding of the situation. However, you can expect stipulations like supervision over your finances and certain activities—such as counseling and continuing your education—which will be mandatory. Fortunately for you official Ward duties are themselves considered a form of community service, despite being paid, and simply being part of the Wards would be a large part of the probation."

When it's put that way it sounds like a reasonable deal: counseling, supervision, and being a Ward in exchange for protection against the monsters lurking in the shadows, and a clean record besides. Perfectly designed to make me look unreasonable for having any problems or concerns about it. I'm not sure where to tug to start unravelling that thread. I'm most definitely being fucked over, somehow, I just don't know how. My audience wouldn't appreciate it if I figured it out anyways.

Then I’d graduate at eighteen and… join the Protectorate, if I wanted to? Me, a hero.

Weird.

"All right,” I say, pushing the thought from my mind, “so let's say I say yes to that. What then?"

"Does anyone have any further objections or concerns?" she asks the room. I bite my tongue. "Then if you're willing to take such a plea deal, and contingent on the veracity of your claims today, we would like to extend a formal invitation to the Protectorate East-Northeast Wards program, Miss Doe."

Huh.

That offer might be conditional on an awful lot of stuff that has to be worked out in the future, but it's still a hell of a jump forward. I feel like there should have been more people signing off on this or more meetings or something before we got to that part. It feels like Piggot’s sticking her neck out an awful long way for me considering she doesn't seem all that excited at the prospect of having me around.

"Lisa Wilbourn," I say. "That’ll be the name going on the paperwork. Thank you. Speaking of which, I think I'd like to start looking over the fine print."

"Miss Wilbourn, then," Director Piggot corrects herself. "I will let Assault and Mr. Castillo assist you in selecting legal representation to walk you through the formal application process. Armsmaster, a moment of your time. As for the rest of you: you are dismissed."

Notes:

I am floored by the amount of love and enthusiasm for Assault this has gotten. The fandom yearns for Assault-fic and I had no idea. He won't be a main character here, but he'll be showing up frequently and significantly enough that he deserves being promoted to the tags. Plus it's apparently a huge selling point I was unaware of.

This chapter was originally a lot longer but got split into two, which on the plus side means the next one's already 60-80% finished and might see Lisa actually finish joining up. Soon there actually may be some Wards stuff in my LIsa in the Wards fic.

I joke, but I actually want to earn that bureaucracy tag I've given this (without it being too painful, hopefully). One thing about Wards-fic generally in my experience is that they tend to focus on hanging out with the Wards and interacting with villains—oftentimes feeling like they're swapping out the Undersiders for the Wards and otherwise being structured similarly to Worm itself. But the Wards are not the Undersiders and I wanted to explore that. That means in part dealing with the fact that there's a lot more procedure and structure in place, and so here we are.

And I will be thanking etherealDesign basically forever in all of these. This wouldn't be even half as crisp and snappy without her brilliance as an editor. <3 All of the remaining failings are my own.

10 Dec 2025 edit: Did some tinkering to more clearly show Lisa's thought processes and why she's willing to knuckle under and talk openly about her crimes, as after a few comments it's obvious to me that wasn't nearly clear enough. We'll see if this works better.

Chapter 3: Breach 1.3

"So… you're my lawyer now?"

Aguilar Castillo looks like he's bitten into a lemon, which I take as a yes. It also confirms my suspicion—which has been growing over the last twenty-four hours of petitions and courthouse hearings—that something has already gone pear-shaped. He's remarkably put together considering he spent most of yesterday since my meeting with Piggot dragging me between offices and courtrooms, on top of whatever other work he does in a normal day. He’s dressed sharply, from the cut of his suit to the shine of his shoes and to the polished gold watch chain which dangles between a vest button and his pocket. Either he doesn’t get dark circles under his eyes, or he has some kind of lawyer-skincare routine that covers them up.

"Yes and no. That is the first thing we need to speak about," he says after a moment. Castillo sighs as he settles into his chair with a heaviness that speaks of very little sleep and a great deal of frustration. "Your situation is not unprecedented but it's very unusual, very complicated, and the PRT and Protectorate are trying to solve every aspect of it all at once and far too fast."

Well, that also confirms that corners were being cut somewhere. I’d wondered, but my first few attempts to use my power to work it out created outputs as confusing as the legalese itself and I’d given it up as a waste of time. My first clue had been that Assault was right: the petition for temporary emergency custody had started and ended almost as quickly as I’d found a seat in the courthouse yesterday. Castillo had been appointed as my legal representative but I'm pretty sure he's also my sort-of guardian for the moment?

If so, neither of us were thrilled about it. He cracks open his briefcase, shuffling through the files as he retrieves the collection of court orders and contracts and informational packets that I accrued yesterday. There were even a few new ones I'd not seen before thrown into the mix, all of which are now being spread over his desk as Castillo sorts them.

"You are involved in two separate criminal investigations involving the use of powers by a minor, a CPS investigation involving a minor with powers, and a Wards application. That workload should probably have three or four lawyers to handle it. However, between needing someone who is certified to work with parahuman minors and that the PRT will allow to look at the relevant confidential information, there are maybe two people besides myself in Brockton Bay who might qualify."

And good luck getting them on short notice even if you could, is the implication I'm getting there. They're probably equally overloaded. There’s something else in his voice, though, a weird note of pride.

Well-organized office; pride in work, pride in appearance. Personal effects as decoration; JD hung on wall, awards and trophies on desk recording accomplishments. Editor of the Yale Law Journal. Clerked with D.C. Court of Appeals. Highly competent, highly ambitious.

Which begs the question: what in the world is he doing working for the Brockton Bay YG? Did a scandal force him out of more important work? With that background, he must’ve fucked up big time to end up in this backwater. Maybe he’d had a mental break and tried to bang his dick on the courtroom lectern like it was a gavel. It's the only possible explanation.

"So yes,” he continues, startling me out of that train of thought, “I am your legal counsel for your Wards application. Unless you decide to contract another attorney I will remain so until the process is complete. You'll be the fifth person I've helped through enrollment. Assuming that you join and remain in the Bay, I'll remain your Youth Guard legal contact afterwards."

At least there probably won't be any surprises. He very well could have enrolled the majority of the currently active Wards in Brockton Bay with that kind of record. Hopefully it means he's good at it and not that he keeps getting the job because the PRT loves how much power he gives them.

"I am not your legal counsel for any matters pertaining to the ongoing criminal investigations. However, I am on hand to give you my unofficial opinion, and to sit in on any interviews as an observer until you can secure representation. You should do that as soon as you can, as there is a real chance that you will be asked further questions about the attempted kidnapping or your father's activities in the near future.” He gives me a very meaningful look. “You should not say anything without a lawyer present."

“No, I thought I’d prefer to look and sound as suspicious as possible.”

“I would also restrain your impulse to deploy sarcasm. It goes on the record, and doesn’t tend to play well in front of a judge.”

“Right. Okay. Sure, I’ll go run and hide behind you whenever the lawman comes knocking, no need to convince me," I say. I've now met crooks at corporate parties and crooks on the street and the one thing they agree on is that you don't talk to cops. "So that's the no part of whether or not you’re my lawyer, then. Anything else?"

"I have also been appointed your guardian ad litem, or GAL. I am not your legal guardian. I am not responsible for your care. I therefore can't compel you to do anything, I’m not responsible for your finances, et cetera," he says, tapping on a particular clause on a document to underscore the distinction he's making. This had probably come up during the hearing with the judge yesterday, but if it had, my brain had already been thoroughly melted by that point.

"You are a ward of the court for the duration of the emergency order," he goes on. "My role in my capacity as your GAL is only to make recommendations to the court about what would be in your best interest with regards to the ongoing CPS investigation. ‘Should your parents have custody rights permanently revoked,’ for instance. Does all of that make sense so far?"

I take a moment to think that over. In other words, it is super crucial to at least try not to piss him off as even a suggestion he makes to the court could screw me over pretty badly for life or at least the next two years. That sucks, since he kinda makes that sound like authority, and authority and I react about as well as ammonia and bleach.

I choose my words carefully as I say, "There's gotta be a conflict of interest in there somewhere."

He finishes sorting his papers and places the briefcase away behind his desk. "I can think of a number of potential pitfalls, and I don't know of any case where a GAL has ever represented the minor they are delegated to in a separate legal matter. Ever, let alone at the same time. If the matter ever goes to a disciplinary hearing or court case the results will be studied in law classes in the future. We're breaking new and exciting legal ground here."

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips in dry amusement and I groan. "I don't want to be a new and exciting legal anything. So do I just ask you if you're my lawyer or my GAL pal whenever I have a question, so you can figure out which you are before you answer?"

"No, you don't have to. In private, you can assume that unless I explicitly say otherwise the specific content of our communication is covered by attorney-client privilege. Conversely, the fact that we did communicate and the general topic we discussed is not privileged information. That’s getting to the heart of the matter,” he says, tenting his hands and looking at me over his fingers.

“In my capacity as your legal counsel, I will advise you on any question of law you might have. While I will try to guide you towards what I believe to be the prudent course of action, I will act in accordance with your wishes even if I think you’re making a mistake. As your guardian ad litem, however, while I will take your expressed wishes into account my recommendations to the court will be whatever I think is in your best interests. You may want to eat all the cookies before dinner, but the court's going to hear otherwise. Make sense?"

I bite my tongue. Something about the metaphor felt laser-targeted, designed to make me feel like a stupid child. I take a deep breath, nod, and try to turn it back around on him.

"But what if I tell you I want to eat all the cookies as part of my Wards application?"

I half expect a groan but he takes the question infuriatingly maturely and professionally. Castillo nods, looking up at the ceiling like he’s lost in thought, and says, “That's the murkiest part of this legal grey area. It’s also where we’d get into trouble, if we get into trouble at all. It is my sincere hope that a more suitable GAL can be appointed in short order.”

“You and me both. No offense.”

Another thin smile. “It would be nice for both of us if this is ultimately a non-issue. Your situation may not be unprecedented, but it's stretching protocol far more than anyone is comfortable with. If the PRT weren't very insistent that every part of this move forward right now, this morning, we'd be taking a week first to sort out who should be doing what."

"And when the PRT says jump?" I say, arching an eyebrow.

"The courts generally ask ‘how high.’ It's incredible the amount of influence an agency can have with the courts when they've been known to come forward and credibly assert that if they don't get what they want in a timely fashion the moon will explode."

He delivers it so drily I don't know whether or not he's being sarcastic. Either way, I appreciate the effort.

"All right then. As my lawyer I have a question for you. Can a transcript of what I said during the meeting with the Director yesterday be used in court?"

"Used as testimony against yourself, you mean? Yes, in theory, it could be admitted as evidence, as could testimony from the Director or the two heroes present," he says without even a split second's hesitation. "Why do you ask?"

“Piggot was railroading me so hard into that probation thing that I half expected her to start making ‘chugga chugga choo choo’ noises.”

Castillo sighs, closes his eyes, and rubs at his temples. “So, you noticed.”

“It was about as obvious as an oncoming train,"I say, "and it occurs to me that the only evidence against me re: crimes I may or may not have committed is my own word. It would be a huge expense to investigate any accusations by anyone who, uh, slanderously claims I robbed them blind while out on the streets or back at home."

He takes a bit longer to think that through before answering. "Let’s game this out. A few different actors here want a lot of the same things. You and Piggot both want you on the Wards team, and the only difference is that you want as few conditions placed upon you as possible, while Piggot wants as many as possible."

Saying I want to be on the Wards might be a bit much, but I can't argue with the 'as few conditions as possible.'

"The third party to consider is the judge we’ll be dealing with, Judge Mann, who mainly wants to feel like god within his own courtroom and to do as little work as possible. He’ll make your life very easy if you don’t create extra work for him, and he’ll make it very hard for anyone he feels is wasting his time. The Director and I both know this.”

“And you’re trying to avoid that, so that this whole weird process can be over with as soon as possible,” I realise. My heart sinks to my stomach. “You could be fighting harder for me than you are.”

“I will if you ask me to as your lawyer,” he says, “but to be blunt, that would not be my advice. I am your advocate first and foremost, Miss Wilbourn. I would not be suggesting you take the deal that the Director has offered you if I didn’t find it to be… reasonably just. There are other lawyers you could pick to represent you, if you’d prefer to spend weeks or months or more fighting with the PRT on these points. I could pick up the phone and call one right now; there’s a talented young woman with certain ideological differences with the Protectorate that make me feel certain she’d take you as a client if asked.”

“But if I fight over this, that’s more time I’m not spending around, you know, a team of capes that could protect me if Captain Kidnap comes looking for me again,” I say. “Shit, Piggot really has me over a barrel.”

He shrugs. “To more fully answer your earlier question, whether your statements could be used against you? Yes, they could, though likely in a heavily redacted form. If they wanted to play hardball, they could say that either you take the plea deal and probation, or you find yourself as a suspect in a criminal investigation for being uncooperative. The most likely outcome is that you still end up with probation terms that include joining the Wards, this time on much less favourable terms. There is… perhaps an argument that you were unduly pressured. You could also recant, but they could claim that as cause to cancel your Wards application for false pretenses. I doubt they'd be willing to do that while they still want you on the team, but we’re in uncharted waters here."

“This isn’t them playing hardball? Fuck, is Piggot like this with every Ward?”

Castillo lets out a long sigh but doesn’t answer. Instead he says, "I entirely agree that this is monstrously unfair to you. Minors are frequently prosecuted as the perpetrators of crimes that they in fact are the victims of. It’s a travesty. That doesn't change that it does happen, could plausibly happen to you, and is something you need to expect and be prepared for."

"You didn't seem all that happy about me pointing it out," I grouch, pretty clearly recalling him frowning disapprovingly when I mentioned it yesterday.

"Throwing the truth in someone's face only makes it harder to find a compromise everyone is comfortable with. You never call out a judge's bullshit in public. The same goes for, I feel I ought to remind you, your future boss."

"It just really pisses me off, having her rub my nose in it like that, like we didn't all know exactly what she was thinking behind it.”

"Be that as it may, she does have the power to make your life a lot more difficult. My job is not to pass judgement on how things should be but to help you navigate the legal waters as they are. I’d like to help you get what you want, and I have to warn you that sparring with the Director and the Judge will make that harder."

My scowl deepens. "She is not going to blow this all up just because she's mad at me talking back. That would be stupid of her… right?"

"I think she's a very pragmatic woman at heart and she would rather have you inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in." He pauses, stretching back into his chair as he regards me. "But that doesn't mean that she’s lacking in ways to make things difficult without resorting to showing you the door. She understands the system, she believes in it, and she knows how to make it work for her.”

“You’re really selling me on the idea of being a hero and protecting ‘her system,’” I mutter.

Castillo raises an eyebrow but seems to think he’s better off ignoring that remark. He continues, “If they decide you can't be reasoned with or, frankly, if you irritate the Director enough, she could also take the option of withdrawing the deal she’s trying to make with you and instead offering one to your father. If your allegations are even close to the truth, he could easily be facing jail time. Do you think he would take a generous plea deal of his own in exchange for his cooperation in enrolling his daughter in the Wards?"

I blanch, the scowl falling off my face entirely. “I didn’t think of that."

"I have no doubt that Director Piggot would happily cut your family out entirely if she could,” he says, which pacifies me slightly. “However, she will be making the calculation about how much leverage they might have over your father compared to how much they’d have over you. Then they’d weigh that against how much new conflict they'd create with you by taking that path."

“A fuckton of conflict is the answer, if you were wondering.”

I sigh. I can see it happening, if some suit gets offended that I'm not sufficiently servile. Even if it made life worse for everyone, it'd still be massive fucking L for me more than for anyone else.

"If you want my advice as your counsel," he goes on, "I don't think you're going to be able to avoid probation. If you could, I’m not sure it will have been worth the trouble. You'd be better off trying to manipulate the terms until they’re as favourable to you as possible. My plan is to focus on investigating your family as much as we can. It's the most serious set of charges by far, and the one they will be investigating with or without your involvement. It is also where you show the least willful intent, where you can show yourself to be cooperative with their investigation, and where you can give yourself the most room to manoeuvre during the negotiating process."

"Negotiating my probation?" I ask, injecting as much skepticism as possible into my tone. The memory of Piggot's approach towards this entire process still stings, especially with the helpful reminder that she would maybe be my boss soon and probably has a similar heavy-handed approach to managing the Wards as well. ‘Micromanaging tyrannical workaholic’ probably beats ‘unknown kidnap guy’ or ‘my dad’ but it's a bad first impression regardless.

He gestures towards the half of his desk with Wards-related paperwork. "Probation is a very common part of Wards enrollment, Miss Wilbourn. Try to imagine how many parahuman youths have had brushes with the law before they join. Your case is unique in a few ways, but this is not one of them. We start from a standard contract so we don’t need to rewrite the boilerplate. Nothing stops you from trying to get special considerations or clauses added on as part of a rider. The clauses we add could include striking clauses from the terms of the probation itself."

“I've always thought about the Wards kind of as a little league team,” I muse, “And to be honest I’ve taken them just about as seriously. But if anyone’s at all like me there’s probably a lot of Wards whose memberships are part of a court order. I guess they let, whatshisname, Kid Win tear copper wiring out of the wall so he can do his tech thing. And there’s the girl in DC who’s on fire constantly, and I think I read about some kid who fights by shooting sewage at people? They probably cause more problems than me.”

“That largely depends on how cooperative we decide to be,” he says, smiling thinly.

I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep breath and holding it for a moment before I let out an equally long sigh.

“Why is my life so complicated?” I say. "So what do you think I should be trying to get?"

"You tell me, Miss Wilbourn. What would make your life the easiest, or hardest? We can go through the standard contract together, to get you thinking. I think you're in a reasonable negotiating position right now. Armsmaster was keenly interested and I spoke with Assault last night. He was sympathetic, at minimum. I am not an expert on powers themselves, but everything I've seen says yours is a valuable one. They'll have a hard time letting you walk away and join another team, to say nothing of the risk of letting you be exploited by a villainous organisation."

“Being exploited by villains, imagine that. I guess I could run off and join, like, The Elite.”

“If you did, you would no longer have my services at your disposal.”

“No, no, you’re… fine. Don’t call that other lady. I hadn't been thinking of this as a negotiation at all, so you have actually given me a step up. I think I really would like you as my lawyer.”

We start poring over all the paperwork together. I was always going to be careful reading all the fine print no matter what, but he's definitely got me thinking about it differently. There is a lot that is non-negotiable—grades, compensation, good behaviour. Even a lot of the exceptions are spelled out to require specific kinds of accommodations for specific kinds of power-related needs, although Always-On-Fire and Stinky still probably have a few bespoke provisions written up just for them.

Image rights seem to be a little more flexible. Regarding my Wards costume there are some pretty dumb regulations that I can't get rid of. All my best ideas had pretty much been shot down immediately, just in the fine print. I decide on the spot that the more control I can wrest away from them over my name and brand and costume the better off I'll be. If I'm going to have to be a Ward at least I can avoid being, like, ‘Clever Cinderella’ or some other hideously embarrassing name.

I don't believe for a second that Kid Win had any say in his branding, so it's clearly a danger.

The right to refuse to show up at birthday parties for PR stunts seems like it would be nice too. Limitations on what they can force me into in the name of normal Wards activities? That definitely has room for negotiation especially as my power is more subtle and spooky than it is flashy and cool. Hey kids, let's all hear it for Steals-Your-Bank-Information Girl! If you all read off your parents’ credit card numbers (and the three super powerful digits on the back) you can be a hero too!

The next few hours of document-reading and clause-cutting would’ve made me want to slam my head against the wall until I was unconscious, except that it's obvious how extremely important it is to do this right. It still sucks. At some point Castillo orders a pizza for lunch and I sit in the corner with a head full of static as I prepare myself for everything that's still ahead of me today, watching him stay hungry and keep working.

---

After a while it sinks in that I’m not being detained. I'm free to walk out at any moment, whether to vanish into the night or just sit in the park so I can have some alone time and centre myself. I considered that. I could figure out how to take the bus to the nearest mall try to find something a little more stylish to wear, sort out my thoughts, feel a bit more like myself again. The idea just doesn't sit well in the end, the wider world feeling like a much darker place than it had seventy-two hours ago.

I wish I could have used the roof as a backup brooding spot, but the PRT HQ building has a helipad on top. Instead I wander the halls aimlessly for an indeterminate amount of time, finding parts of the HQ that I’m sure no one was ever meant to see. I drift past a sad little lounge nook, full of plastic potted plants on shelves over a pool table that conspicuously lacks any cues or balls. One door opens to reveal a blank brick wall behind it.

Finally I find somewhere suitably private; a bit of hallway that should terminate at the exterior wall of the building instead rounds a corner in front of me and out of sight. I follow, turn, and see that my suspicion was right: there’s another twenty feet of hall between the conference room I just passed and the exterior windows that is totally dead space. I step forward slowly over scratchy carpet, almost in awe at the uselessness of it all. The late afternoon sun filtres through the full floor-to-ceiling windows onto the opposite wall six feet away. They’re an entirely ordinary creamy-beige colour, only interrupted by one clock and one inexplicable and comically small print of The Great Wave off Kanagawa that someone bought from a thrift store, hung up, and left behind. That was probably the last time anyone set foot here.

I’d spent a lot of time in these dead spaces, little corners of hotels or offices or municipal buildings that existed for no reason anyone could remember. I'd grown almost fond of them. They were good places to hide and sometimes decent places to sleep, if they were suitably out-of-the-way and not under the eye of any security cameras. This is a place I could come to be forgotten.

I lean against the glass, chin coming to rest against my knees and arms wrapping around my legs. I stare out the window at the office building across the street. It’s quiet. It’s too warm for radiators and too cool for AC and so I sit in silent dead air in an office building after business hours and I think about my future.

There's a lot to think about. The ongoing threats to my life are bad, the possibility of being called to testify against my father is worse, and I’m probably the least stoked about having a single set of clothes and thirty dollars to my name. The possibility of trying to get the PRT to lean on the courts to get me emancipated holds my attention for a while. I press my cheek against the glass and think about all the nameless faceless alcoholics, or fundamentalists, or ordinary petty tyrants I might be saddled with as a foster father.

"Whatcha up to?"

I look up. Assault managed to sneak up on me, sort of; he’s sitting on the carpet a bit further down the hall. He's out of his armour, sporting his own domino and wearing an outfit coloured and themed to be reminiscent of his costume. Checking in on me? I glance at the wall clock. Ah, coming to get me. There's less than half an hour until the final meeting.

"Thinking about who I am, what I want, normal teenage girl shit," I say. A moment passes and he doesn’t respond, so I ask, "Did you search the entire building to find me?"

"You hadn't signed out,” he says with a shrug. “I figured you wouldn't be anywhere restricted, so I just went up and down the halls for a few minutes. Thinking about what you want out of the Wards, or just life?"

I go back to staring out through the window. It's a fucking ugly office building that was built even more cheaply than the HQ. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at it. "The Wards. Thinking about whether I can get my contract to say I can skip birthday parties and charity dinners."

"Not excited about signing up?" I turn my head slightly in his direction but I don't open my eyes. After a moment of my failing to say anything he goes on, "You've got this killer pensive gloom going on. Show that to Costuming, they’ll try to market it somehow. Plus it's been the better part of a year since you triggered, and six months out on your own. I could be barking up the wrong tree here, but the way I see it is that if you wanted to join the Wards you would have by now."

"It never really crossed my mind," I say. He doesn’t call out the lie. I don’t tell on myself. The silence stretches until I feel compelled to continue, "Not seriously, anyways. It just felt like it'd make everything more complicated."

“Being a hero? Protecting the people, you know—” He pauses and I hear him tap on the glass. “—out there?”

“Pretty much.”

"Still feel that way?"

I let out a long breath. "Yeah. But staying out there seems like an even worse option."

“You’re scared.”

I screw my eyes tighter shut. “Just because you saw the one time I’ll ever cry in my life, don’t think that’s going to be a regular thing. I had literally just been pepper sprayed.”

“Whatever you say, kid, but between you and me? I’m always scared.”

I ask my power to check for a lie. There’s a bit of hyperbole, maybe, but he isn’t lying.

"So why did you stick around here?" I ask slowly, trying to talk around his difficult past.

"At first? Because when I got caught the word ‘Birdcage’ came up and I started thinking about whether there might be a better option out there,” he chuckles. “Different sitch than yours, but close enough to rhyme. Now? Now it's mostly the people. I started doing the right thing because it felt like an easy out, and I was scared of the alternative. You’ll be surprised, I think, by how fast it grows on you. But while doing good is nice and all, Dauntless, Challenger, Battery... they've got my back, I’ve got theirs, and we have the scars to prove it. Wouldn't give that up even if I were offered the choice."

"We happy few," I murmur under my breath.

“You’ll find your tribe too,” he says, fingers drumming on the glass. “There are some strong personalities on our Wards team, but they more or less want all the right things. When you aren’t on the run from the law, you can do things like have nights on the town, build a life for yourself, settle down. Maybe you might even meet a girl.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Or, you know, a guy. I don’t judge. Just saying how it was for me: meet a cute girl, antagonise her with a rude nickname, realise she means the world to me, defect to her team, the classic love story.”

“Yeah right,” I snort. I rub my eyes, open them, and look down at the floor. It takes a long time to think through how to ask my follow up question. I finally ask, "No regrets selling out to the man?"

“Do you mean ‘selling out,’ like, losing creative control over my art? My costume? Or about becoming a hero and swallowing the PRT ideology about how capes should be?”

“The latter, I guess.”

"Yeah, so it turns out that I was a little shit back when I was flying solo," he says. "I had a few good ideas that I felt justified all the self-serving ones, and so much edge I ended up cutting myself on it. ‘Selling out’ was the best thing I ever did. Not gonna say I'm happy with everything here, but I've got my people. We respect one another, even if we drive each other up the wall sometimes. If I left that, there'd be one less sane voice at the table, y'know?"

“‘Voice of sanity’ sounds nice."

“I think you would offer your new team a useful perspective.”

I make a noncommittal noise and stare at the floor for another minute. I take a deep breath, letting it out as I unfold myself. "Guess it's time to go sell out."

"That's the spirit," he says with a smile, and strides over to offer me a hand. "After we’re done tonight let’s go get you shawarma, to celebrate our better life choices."

Without any good reason not to, I take his hand, letting him haul me to my feet. He leads me back the way I’d come. All the listlessness has vanished by the time, a few minutes later, I end up back in front of Piggot’s office door with the little ‘Director’ plaque embossed onto the front. It's either dread or excitement that I feel now; either way my legs have turned into jelly.

When I hear the call to come in, the feeling settles on excitement. I’m less excited about being a hero and more at the prospect of this being the last meeting between the two of us for now. Director Piggot is back in her chair across from me and we've got two lawyers on hand now. Castillo is on my side, some random Protectorate lawyer on theirs. He looks like a thumb in a suit. All the details have been hammered out already in an endless parade of interviews and questionnaires and the brief psych evaluation I'd had to go through. Now all we had to do was shake hands and sign on the dotted line in blood.

Piggot welcomes me in. She doesn’t balk at any of our additional clauses, even the few we added to strike lines from my original contract. As much as I hate to admit it, the new terms of my probation are awfully lenient. Supervision, attending school, and otherwise just being a Ward is most of it. The main stinker is that a lot of otherwise optional Ward activities are going to end up mandatory. I don't like it, but it isn't as onerous as it could have been. The real threat it poses is that it gives them a big stick to beat me with if I step out of line, but how hard can it be to keep my nose clean for a few years?

Well, if they try to throw the book at me, I can always flee to Europe or something.

There are some little victories. I wish I could have said I owned my own brand, but the actual specifics take up a solid two and a half pages of the final contract. It's still leagues better than what's typical for a Ward, I’m told: more comparable to the deal a new member of the Protectorate would get.

I'm feeling pretty good about my life for once when Piggot springs her last surprise on me.

"Your revised terms for probation and Wards membership seem reasonable enough. I accept. However, the PRT has drafted a rider of our own," the Director says, with what she might think is an inviting smile. My stomach twists as I feel the other shoe dropping. "In all cases, new members of the Wards or Protectorate have limited security clearance, just like our unpowered staffers. You understand.”

I did understand. I’d reached for my power the instant this awful surprise had dropped. It said:

Piggot: muscle twitch in face suggests suppressed smile. Satisfied. Protectorate lawyer isn’t surprised, isn’t speaking, Piggot responsible for adding final contract clause.

Clause regards Sarah-self’s power, threat to PRT, threat to Piggot, irritation to Piggot. Trap.

“Makes sense…” I say, turning in my seat to look at Castillo. His face gives me nothing, but a quick pulse of my power shows that he’s caught just as off-guard as me. Great. ”Don't want to make it too easy for villains to join up for just long enough to steal a bunch of superpowered kids' secret identities, right?"

"In light of your power and history, Ms. Wilbourn, we would like to have some additional precautions put into place,” Piggot says, ignoring me. “At intervals not to exceed once a month, Armsmaster or some other suitable observer will interview you about your activities and any confidential information that you may have become privy to."

Armsmaster preferred interviewer. Confidence in Armsmaster to control Sarah-self: Armsmaster has a lie detector built into his suit.

Crap.

"With our initial evaluation of your power in mind we also understand that there are a great many ways that you could inadvertently violate the normal protocols,” Piggot continues, still heedless of my distress. “Sometimes this may happen without even realising that the information you’ve come across is restricted. In order to accommodate those possibilities, any information that you self-report coming across will be treated as an accidental discovery, absent any other factors. During interviews you may reveal that you’ve accessed information that you were unaware was restricted. Provided that you don’t deliberately attempt to conceal your knowledge of such information from us, we will assume good faith on your part and again treat the discovery as accidental, absent other factors."

I really hope I haven't gone wide-eyed. I school my expression just in case. ‘Assume good faith?’ That must have physically hurt her to say. I hold my breath as I let it sink in. What would the alternatives look like anyhow? If they're not openly interviewing me about whatever secrets I've turned up, then they're going to be secretly spying on me to figure it out. They'll still be secretly spying on me regardless, but this does give me a way to at least try and defend myself.

I look behind me to see Assault leaning next to the door, giving me a goofy grin and a big thumbs-up, and Castillo standing almost at my side. The lawyer gives me a nigh-imperceptible nod.

“You give me a lot of grace, for the low, low price of knowing everything I know,” I say, spelling it out for everyone in the room.

Piggot smiles her sharp smile at me and doesn’t respond.

Was I going to fight on this, drag this shitty process on even longer? Maybe I would’ve, on another day, when I wasn’t so tired or—to be honest with myself—scared of what might happen if I walked. It'd also look incredibly suspicious if I did. It's probably one of their new red lines anyhow.

"Yeah, I can live with that," I say.

"Good. We have a draft already prepared. After you've signed my assistant can get you scheduled for an orientation tour and an appointment with the Wardrobe Department to start you on branding."

I groan, slouching back into my chair in defeat. "Do you actually manage to find time for being heroes in between all the meetings, or have you entirely given up on that part?"

The PRT lawyer and Castillo spend a good fifteen minutes reviewing the final document, walking Piggot and myself through the exact details once they've worked out the wording. Five minutes, a rush print job, and eight signatures later and I'm finally done.

"Welcome to the Wards, Miss Wilbourn," Piggot says, tapping her copy of the contract on the desk to straighten it before tucking it into a manila folder to be filed away. "Ms. Rose will help you with the next steps on the way out."

“Okay, sure, but one last question,” I say, tapping the very nice pen I’d signed my papers with back against the desk I’d taken it from. Piggot hadn’t specifically asked for it back and I'm tempted to take it just out of spite. “What do I do if I learn something that nobody wants me to know, and if they find out that I do, every single person in the universe will be mad with me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Wilbourn,” Piggot says sharply without looking up from her papers. She brushes Armsmaster’s hand off her desk in irritation. “This is the PRT. None of us should have anything to hide.”

Notes:

This one came out pretty fast as it was already 80% written as part of the previous chapter when that got split into two. What I'm saying is that I normally don't have sub-week turnaround time, and will likely overall slowdown eventually. For one, etherealDesign puts in a huge amount of work into the edits and that takes time. I praise her in every chapter notes for that, but I want y'all to appreciate just how much she does. I think this chapter alone got ~450 comments, notes, and edits taking up hours and hours of work. Really above and beyond, and this is so much better for it.

And hey, look at that, more Assault. Not just because he turned out to be popular, but also because he's fun to write and he's also very useful. He's got a lot of parallels to Lisa—more on that later, no doubt—and is a great sounding board for her in a way that no one else in her vicinity currently is.

(Also, guh, 19,947 words. Surely I could have cut 53 fewer to hit an even 20,000 and make my numbers brain happy.)

10 Dec 2025: Minor cleanup, and a few thoughts exposed as well. I had way more typos in the past slip through than I do these days.

Chapter 4: Breach 1.4

The very first thing they do to brand new Wards is give them a mask. It’s immediately the highlight of my day. Right after the mask’s shoved into my hands I get shoved in front of a camera and told to smile—no, not like that—but there's only so much I can do when they've asked me to wear a mask for my ID photo. It comes out really well, the expression on my face having surpassed smug and ascended straight to sly.

The next thing they hand me after my cute little domino mask is a big-ass employee handbook. They tell me to have it memorised by the end of day because it’ll all be on the test. When I tell them I’d spent all day nose-deep in contract law they give me an extension until tomorrow. I carry it with me and rub my fingers against the unfamiliar mask that’s still on my face while they give me a limited tour of the facilities. Introductions to most staffers could come later, apparently, since much of the staff had already gone home.

As I scan my brand new ID to get past the Wardrobe Manager’s office door, I feel like I belong here for the very first time. All I can hope is that the photo survives the update I'll need to get for the ID. Right now it says WARD, has that great picture of me in the corner, and the rest is intentionally left blank. Time to invent a new name for myself. Again.

PRT ENE Wardrobe Manager Shavonne Green is a dark-skinned older woman, her hair done up in salt and pepper knotless braids. Her blue cable knit sweater vest hugs her bony frame and her eyes are as sharp as her elbows. She isn’t the only one in the room. There’s another kid there in salmon-pink shorts and a button down, the universal uniform of the preppy douchebag. If that weren't clear enough, he’s also wearing a techy visor that covers the upper half of his face. He's watching a teleconference that’s been set up on a big flatscreen monitor on the wall, where a horribly dressed man is being filmed from an unflattering angle and speaking animatedly. He doesn’t seem to notice that the attention of the room has shifted away from him and towards me.

“...and the lion’s mane would be perfect, Triumph, I like your instincts. I don’t love that your Protectorate team has two Greco-Roman themed heroes on it, but this will help you separate your own branding away from Dauntless. We do have to make sure we don’t run afoul of any animal rights groups, though. You don’t need that kind of publicity. Ditch the fur idea, make it a helmet, moulded to resemble a lion’s head, and call it a day?”

Triumph—it’d taken me a moment to recognise him without his armour—isn't looking at him anymore. After a moment, the man in the monitor realises he'sbeing ignored, and is visibly put out. I'm the only one who sees his frown.

“What’s going on over there? Shavonne?”

Before the local head of costuming can respond, Triumph cuts in. “It’s the new girl.”

“Ah!” Mister Monitor’s face brightened. “Then my office hours are now concluded. So—”

“I know, I know, I gotta run. I was done anyway,” Triumph says. He picks up a very ordinary backpack and heads for the door, which means he’s also heading straight for me. He stops and sticks out a hand. For me to shake, apparently, so I do. “Triumph. I’ll be your team captain. And you are?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

He grimaces. “Good luck and see you downstairs in, if you’re lucky, five hours.”

“Get over here in front of the camera, I’m sure the cameras will just love you,” the big talking head calls, and Triumph slips past me. He gives me a very boyish clap on the back as he goes, which is so out-of-left-field it almost makes me laugh in his face, but then he’s gone.

I meander over to a camera standing on a tripod. “I’m here.”

“Glenn Chambers, Senior Executive Director of Public Relations and Brand Management,” Chambers says. “It's a mouthful of a title. Just think of me as the PRT’s Head of Image instead.”

“Your image is that a clown just threw up on you,” I tell him, but I get laughed off.

"Well, let’s get started then. The only thing we need to get right is the theme," Chambers begins. He's wearing a godawful cheap suit over clashing multicolor polo shirt and has a used car salesman's oily charisma, just used for hawking heroes instead of hatchbacks. "Everything else can and will be rebranded in time, even a name. Changing public perception is a lot more work, if it can be done at all."

"Themes? Sure.” I take about three seconds to think of one. “I've gotten pretty fond of telling people that I'm psychic and reading their minds."

"That's a no go," he says, shooting down that idea before I even have time to build it up. "Not every hero is relatable and personable, but no hero should make the public paranoid."

"So no mind-reading?"

"No mind-reading, for the same reason you can’t call yourself ‘the Herokiller.’ Makes too many people the wrong kind of uncomfortable."

"Mentalism might be possible," Green suggests, angling for a half-way compromise. "Psychological tricks. If you wanted to go for a seer or oracle archetype, the trappings of mystical access—tarot, ouija, et cetera—allow for broader use than just looking into people's minds."

"Mysticism is better than mind-reading, but hard to play straight. Also, I prefer avoiding witchcraft when possible, just to minimise the letter-writing campaigns from the moral lobbies. I won’t fight that hard against it but it’s not my first choice for you."

“I’ve met grown adults with strong opinions on children's books and far too much time on their hands before,” I say, thinking back to some of the godawful house parties my parents once hosted. “Not interested in getting hatemail from fifty-year-old fundie housewives. I am not that attached to calling myself psychic, so, ditch the witch idea.”

“I’m sure you’re just full of other great ideas,” Green says, almost blinding me with her sunny disposition.

"Well, the way I've been describing it lately is that I'm a superpowered Sherlock Holmes," I offer.

"That's a better angle," Chambers says. "Detective has both positive law-abiding connotations and a lot of room for expression and variation."

"Also, it fits your power really well." Green scans the summary document in front of her as she speaks. "Can build up a theme of intuition or following clues. There's fertile ground for costuming there! I love it."

"It's so flexible you could spin it into an investigative journalist as easily as building an arc from Nancy Drew in the Wards to Philip Marlowe in the Protectorate,” Glenn says. “Hopefully minus the alcoholism. Theme may be harder to rebrand, but investigator covers a lot of ground."

I pause for a moment.

"It's that simple?"

"It usually is, if you're happy with it," Chambers tells me. "Most powers lend themselves to a narrative, and you are about as pure a Thinker as they come without obviously crossing over into some other cape's story. The hard ones are the flying brutes. There’s only so many ways to be an Alexandria clone, and ‘bird’ theming is very out-of-style."

"That's kind of what I was expecting, to be honest," I say with a shrug. "Some kind of private-eye theming would’ve probably been my angle if I’d tried to go it alone, if only because finding a trenchcoat and a hat is easy.”

"The next hard part," Green says, "is the name. That part needs more work and a few rounds of review to make sure it isn't a slur in some language or the sobriquet of a serial killer we missed. We try to come up with a few options in the first round and winnow them down to the best."

“Yeah, I've been getting called Miss Doe so much lately I'm afraid I'm going to start chewing up people’s gardens.”

“That’s the importance of controlling your own branding!”

I hate how pleased Chambers looks with himself at that.

"So I just start throwing out suggestions?" I ask, and I don't bother waiting for a response. "Tattletale?"

"Do you want your brand to be ‘gradeschool informant?’" Chambers asks archly.

“Well, I mean, how mad would you be to get your ass kicked by someone named Tattletale, and I think making people mad is funny,” I try, before realising who I’m talking to. “I mean, more importantly, strong emotion gives me more clues to work with, and getting a rise out of people makes my power stronger.”

Chambers shakes his head, and I get a better view of his receding hairline from the sides. “It’s dead in the water. There’s no mystique to it, and I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that there’s nothing about the name that we can market. You have to start thinking about your merch sales.”

Thinking about selling merch of myself makes my head spin. More to the point, his words sting. I’d used the name years ago when playing cops and robbers with my brother, back when we still talked. Now that I had powers that would kind of fit it?

“I guess I have a soft spot for it that you don’t,” I say, grinning and biting my tongue. "What's your suggestion, then?"

"The leading suggestion is Insight," Green suggests. "Concise, positive, emphasises the Thinker aspect while implicitly putting you as the focus instead of your power."

"It's a bit on the nose, isn't it? I was hoping not to give any Insight into my powers to everyone I meet. " I wrinkle my nose. "Also sounds a little bit generic. I bet there's been a half dozen capes called Insight."

"Epiphany was thrown about as an alternative, as was Sidestep."

I hum softly to myself for a moment, closing my eyes to think.

"I dunno about how it shortens. No one's going to use four syllables when out fighting crime, and that gets clipped, to, what? Epi? Piph?" I roll my eyes at the thought, then move on, asking. "Why Sidestep?"

"It has a nice cadence to it, and suggests an attitude rather than a power. Thinkers sidestep problems, come at them from a new angle."

“Having a style that implies more than says sounds good,” I say. The idea of attitude over powers crystallises a feeling I've already been having into a thought I could put into words, explains why certain names did or didn’t catch my interest. "I do like the thought of not just declaring what I do to the world. Also having a name that doesn't lead to being called Piff. Put a pin in Sidestep?"

“Yes, dear,” Green says. She smiles encouragingly at me and I feel like the sun is in my eyes.

I run my fingers up along my jawline to rub behind my ear. "So my actual first thought had been Vixen."

Green laughs, an unrestrained and resonant sound that comes deep from inside her despite that she's fairly slender. It's a nice laugh. "Oh, honey, no. The costume you'd want for that persona would look amazing and also get shot down by the YG before you finished saying your name. Try for a rebranding when you hit eighteen."

"No one really gets to rebrand when they graduate from the Wards," I groan.

“And you have insider knowledge, I suppose,” Chambers says, chuckling. I want to throw rocks at his stupid 1080p face. “Silly me, I forgot you were the expert here.”

“I’ve read cape magazines since I was eight! Even if you try to rebrand it basically never sticks. Kid Win is going to be stuck being called Kid Win even when he's Mechtillery or whatever. If you could just rebrand that easy, you wouldn't have Clockblocker."

"That is because most rebrands are trashfires," Chambers says, sounding surprisingly passionate. "Half of what I do is picking up my phone and begging, pleading, threatening capes to no, please, don’t blow up your brand by nixing your name and replacing it with a unicode character. Clockblocker got to keep his name because it is legitimately clever, he’s a natural at talking to the press, and he knew how to sell it to them. Now we have ‘Clockblocker’ keychains, go figure."

"He still almost had to walk it back," Green adds. "YG had his back on that one, but even if they didn't and he stayed as Freeze Tag you know that folks wouldn't even remember that name ten seconds after he graduated and announced his debut as the Clock."

"Kid Win is still going to be the kiddo for life," I say. I didn't realise the YG had been on Clockblocker's side over that. I file away that little detail for later.

"Maybe," Chambers says, "Depends on how well he pivots, if he even wants to."

I scoff. "You are not telling me that Kid Win of all people was thrilled about his cape name."

"He chose it himself."

“And the YG let him? Aren’t they supposed to keep us away from bad decisions?”

“Kid Win likes his style,” Green says. I give her an incredulous look but she seems serious, even if she's still smiling. “He’s also a good hero, so it would make me sad if you were as rude to his face as you have been here.”

Ouch. Message received.

"Well, you said we'd need a couple names, so put a pin in Vixen too."

It does get written down on the list, at least. That's probably the best I can do for now.

"My second thought is Hyacinth. It's from a poem I like, The Waste Land, but it'd be such a tenuous reference that zero people would get it." I brush back a stray lock of hair. Maybe it's a good thing it'd be impossibly obscure? It had been my first thought—if you didn't count Tattletale—most of a year ago when still at home and harbouring thoughts most new capes probably have. I hadn't been in a good place at the time.

Then Green has to burst my fucking bubble by saying, “Ah, I love Eliot’s poems! I remember being a young girl, reading poetry as a way of finding myself.”

Working here is going to really cut into my moping time.

"Nothing wrong with obscure in itself, and the flower theming lends well to branding," Chambers says, oblivious to my soul pains. "Best so far in that way, you'd have a very strong theme for a peer demo."

"Peer demo?" I cut in, before he really gets rolling.

"Your demographic. In this case, with an identity like Hyacinth, probably targeted primarily at preteen and teen girls. We can probably stretch it to include college-age women. You'd have incredible potential for product appeal with a floral theme. Dolls and toys at the lower end, up to makeup and perfumes for the young women, and hyacinths sell both."

My brow furrows slightly. I've been trying to make sure I didn't get saddled with something that could drown me in bubblegum and lollipops. I'd seen enough cape girls to know how that works out if you give them half a chance.

"That's a little bit much to make everything about my name."

"Your power is not at all visible, and by the sounds of it you're not even going to be explicit about what it does. There isn't anything but to lean into the aesthetic to establish identity. It's not all that uncommon for capes without visually striking or consistent power sets. Think Mouse Protector, or any other grab bag."

I groan, although I'm saved from having to find a way out of that by Green.

"If you wanted to keep some of the flavour of Vixen, there are other ways. Lean into the name as an attitude rather than anything directly linked to your powers. You could mix it with a more accessible literary reference that's a little bit more family friendly. Instead of Vixen, Cheshire."

I turn my attention to the woman and give her a skeptical look.

"As in, Alice in Wonderland Cheshire Cat? You don't think that sounds a little childish? I know I've seen a few Alice or Mad Hatter types before and the theming is all very…" I wave vaguely and make an exaggerated grimace. "Twee."

"Mmmhm, that Cheshire Cat. Frustrating to talk to, always smirking and obtuse even when helpful, strangely insightful in roundabout ways." She arches an eyebrow at me.

I open my mouth to say something about twee again then close it as I take a moment to actually digest that.

"Okay, that kind of fits," I very grudgingly admit. Some of that is no doubt obvious within five minutes of meeting me but some of it implies I'm already getting a reputation here. “But the Cheshire Cat is also kind of a weird pervert voyeur or something, and I’m not going to speak to people in riddles, either.”

“You have some funny preconceived notions,” Green observes.

I pause for a beat. "It’s also so close to Vixen that it'd make a rebrand harder."

"Oh, I think there are ways you could make that stick. Give a lady cape the right costume and no one remembers anything else."

Yeah, I bet. Not sure I'd want one of those costumes, though.

"That's four possibilities. Sidestep, Vixen, Hyacinth, Cheshire. No objections to any of those?" Chambers steps in to refocus us. Neither Green nor I have anything that hasn't been said already. "We'll start the review. Shavonne, you can handle initial sketching for the costume? Good, I want drafts soon so we can start prototyping. We want this ready to go public by July at the very latest."

“July? Does any part of being a cape actually involve, you know, being a cape? Or is it just meetings.”

“You’re a malnourished teenager fresh off the street with—let me guess—zero knowledge of the laws and regulations that govern the Protectorate and Wards?” Glenn asks, without looking up from whatever paperwork was under his nose at his desk, wherever in America his desk actually is. “No? That’s what I thought. It’s generous, frankly, to say you’ll be ready by then. All we can do is have your costume ready for you. And with that, I really must be off. Take it from here, Shavonne!”

And with that, he hangs up, dumping the second half of the meeting solely on Green’s shoulders. I could hear him already moving on to critique some kind of school outreach thing to someone else in his office before he’d even disconnected the line.

"All right," Green says, spreading out a collection of sketches between us, placing an extra sheaf of blank paper to the side. I guess it was fair enough for Chambers to have left; he never could’ve gotten involved in the fine details of the visuals we were apparently about to go over. "We've got an idea of theme and a range of names. Now we can get some initial concepts worked out, enough to start seeing how things look on you, at the very least."

I start shuffling through the sketches. There's a lot of variety, ranging from some fairly generic looking 'I am a cape what is not very fighty' to more strongly thematic designs—a selection of ideas from previous work she's done to serve as inspiration.

I linger on one. It was made for someone much chestier than me, with tights and a loose tunic-style shirt belted at the waist. A full cloth facemask covers the head with stenciled outlines of eyes, and a full hooded cloak wraps up the figure. Next to it is a variation, swapping the mask for a scarf that obscures the bottom half of the face while the upper half is concealed in shadow.

Honestly I kind of like it, even if it'd be more appropriate for the mentalist idea. The cloak might get in the way too. It isn't what I'm going for, though. Very little in here is. An idea strikes me. Cheshire isn't my first choice of name, but it does have one distinct advantage.

"You know… Cheshire would give a thematic reason to wear a catsuit."

"Now you're back to the Vixen image problem."

I huff. This is just going to keep getting in the way.

"Brandish gets away with showing off her everything in her costume, as does Photon Mom. I bet Brandish would even help me worm my way out of my contract if it meant joining New Wave."

I've always thought the costume design on New Wave is remarkably good in a classic simplicity kind of way.

"Brandish is an adult woman who manages her own independent brand, and the girls don't get to wear anything whole-body skintight before eighteen anyway. Glory Girl wears shorts under her skirt and Panacea has been stuffed into a burlap sack. Laserdream is, as we speak, workshopping her new costume for her birthday reveal. Even New Wave has to pay attention to the YG guidelines."

I make a small little frustrated growl. "I’m a gymnast. I have been wearing leotards, in public, since I was six. A catsuit would be no tighter than that, and it’d cover more."

She fetches a blank sheet, placing it down next to the one I'd been looking at and starts sketching. It's really impressive to watch how she manages to make it look so fluid despite the extra long acrylic nails she's sporting. "And lingerie can cover more than a swimsuit but nobody's down at the beach in garters and a corset. It would be inappropriate. If you add a skirt and belt I bet we can find a compromise, and costumes are the easiest thing to rebrand on graduation. Every cape goes through a couple updates. You just saw Triumph do exactly that."

That, at least, is true. More to the point, I intend to continue the war throughout design revisions as well. I will have my catsuit yet.

"What about one of those…" I make an illustrative gesture as I struggle for the right word. I feel a twinge of embarrassment. It's rare for my fashion vocabulary to fail me—and on such a softball, no less. The very essence of my being is rioting against having to back off from the catsuit, even if it’s just a tactical retreat. "The skirts that goes three quarters of the way around. Like a butt cape."

"If it's that far around it's more of a butt cloak," she says, adding lines to the new figure to form a skirt that half-wraps around the hips. "Depending on exactly what you've got in mind you're thinking a high-low or open front skirt, or something in the style of a close-fit tailored cutaway or frock coat. It's a fine place to start. You can get away with a lot in the name of mobility."

"Open front skirt, that’s the word I was looking for. Although a close-fitted coat might play into the detective aesthetic if it's done right." I brighten as I get another idea. "Can I get tinkertech cat ears as part of this?"

If I do get Vixen to stick, I can swap them out for fox ears.

She laughs. "Cat ears, yes, marketing will eat that up. Tinkertech cat ears, you'll have to go play nice with Armsmaster. What's your favourite colour?"

"Purple."

"Darker or lighter purples?"

"Lighter, probably? Hold on, I need to make sure you’re writing this down: light purple, and not pink. Don’t make me a pink pony girl."

I'm still suspicious after the hints of what might happen with a flower name, which has tragically soured me on my beloved Hyacinths. It feels like asking for a future full of bubblegum and candy hearts.

"Bright indigo to start with, then. That’d look nice with royal blue, and… and a dark rose or magenta for secondary colours. I'm feeling gold accenting but we'll see how it evolves. You're not set on having a monotone theme are you?" I shake my head and she lets out a long sigh of relief. "Thank the Lord for bringing you in then. The Brockton Bay Protectorate has some of the least visually interesting capes on the entire Eastern Seaboard. We'll have you stealing the show at every event you turn up for."

Half an hour of sketches and questions and we have a draft taking shape, one which would be prototyped and ready for me to try on tomorrow. Then, presumably, there’d be more fights over my name. I'd never really considered about how much went into costuming when you had a real budget for it and a team of professionals who made careers out of thinking through things that never would have occurred to me in my life. It explains why most villain costumes honestly looked kinda garbage.

After that half hour, though, I’m totally fried. I’d spent five minutes not listening, just considering the implications of all the villains I’d heard of who did have snazzy costumes. Who did their costume design? Glenn was awful enough; did he moonlight for Kaiser, like some kind of evil costuming mercenary? I find a quieter spot and retrieve my new Protectorate-issue phone. Fancy. Castillo picks up on the third ring.

"Lisa?"

"The one and only. Hey Hector, have a few minutes? I need to pick your brain."

"About something that has to go past your new resource officer and straight to legal? Should I be concerned?"

"Oh, no it's nothing like that yet. I just got done talking about costumes and branding and I need a YG opinion. There were some disagreements about exactly who I’m allowed to be.”

I hear him take a deep breath and exhale. It's not quite a sigh but he's definitely bracing himself. "In general, the Youth Guard works to ensure that a Ward's identity is respected while also making sure that they are neither exploited nor sexualised. Did you have something specific you wanted to know about?"

"Yeah, a few things. Catsuit, yes or no?"

"I think that would be a very tough sell and you'd likely have to demonstrate some specific compelling need," he says, which sounds like a very lawyered ‘no.’

I'm going to try for it anyways. If nothing else, maybe I'll get more out of them if that’s my opening bid. They can bargain me down from that, but I will be getting concessions. That doesn't stop me from complaining.

"I wear a bikini and it's you go girl, good job expressing yourself, and now everyone's suddenly all harlot, why are you inciting lustful thoughts in the hearts of men. How is that anything remotely, like, fair?"

"Context, some hypocrisy, and having to live in the real world," Hector says and I make a blegh noise of displeasure at him raining on my parade.

"Well, the other part is names. My first pick was Vixen. They're balking."

"Identity is easier to defend than image, although you're going to have to fight for that specific choice."

"Yeah, figured that out already. But compared to Clockblocker? I don't see how they seriously are telling me that's unacceptable."

"They balked at that as well. Between concern about image and the costs already sunk into branding and merchandising, they wanted to have him put out a statement saying it was the prank they took it for at first. I had to threaten to file an injunction to get them to sit down and talk to him."

"No shit, really? Think you can get one ready to go for me?"

He takes a moment to think about it, which worries me. When he already knows the answer to a question, he never takes this long to speak.

"You're going to have a harder time than he did. For one thing they’re already wise to that trick. Now, doing it up front you can avoid any financial or reputational cost from a false start on the branding, but the image itself is a tougher sell. Crude humour out of a teenaged boy is treated differently than a perception of impropriety or indecency out of a teenaged girl."

"Impropriety? Indecency?" I feel a smirk creeping over me at the way he words that. "My, you're on the verge of calling me a scarlet woman. I'm clutching my pearls over here."

"The media won't be nearly so circumspect about it. The first impression with a name like that is that you are seductive, sensual, and sexually available. The PRT does not officially want that to be the image for their underage heroes."

I do not miss the qualification there. "Not officially?"

"Not officially," he confirms. "The PRT is a large organisation, which means that it’s often at odds with itself. You're too young to remember the Miss Militia jailbait countdown clock. The PRT statement on that at the time was something to the effect of, ‘we don’t condone it, but boys will be boys.’ However, a lot of her official posters and marketing slogans at the same time were, you could say, taking advantage of the public interest. Today they wouldn't get away with anything as blatant as they did back then, but many Wards are still put in positions they aren't comfortable with for marketing reasons."

Of fucking course this is why I can't have nice things. I sigh again.

“I soured on my other idea once I realised I’d get stuck with pink floral merch for the rest of my life. The image clown’s ideas were Sidestep, which is okay, and Cheshire, which is worse.”

“It sounds like you’re stuck on this ‘Vixen’ concept,” he observes.

“Am I?” My grip on the phone tightens, and only then do I realise I have the thing in a vice grip, my empty hand balled up into a fist. “Oh, I guess I am.”

Which is weird, since I hadn’t cared too much about the idea of what kind of cape I’d be until today. Suddenly it feels real, like it matters.

“Would you like to try explaining why?”

“Because—” I start, about to say something very petulant before I stop for a moment to compose myself. It doesn’t help. I still feel very small as I explain, “Because it’s my name. It’s mine, it’s a part of me. I don’t want one that someone else gives to me. Does that even matter?”

"It matters a great deal, actually,” Castillo says, with a passion that surprises me. “That’s why the Youth Guard exists, at least in part, Lisa.”

“Huh.” I hadn’t actually expected anyone at all to back me up. First time for everything.

“Are you prepared to make concessions?”

“Like what?”

“About the design of the costume, or other parts of your brand, to assuage concerns about being sold as an underage temptress. Concessions like not making them fight you about the catsuit.”

"Maybe you could set up a meeting to work that out?" I say. ”Also, being called a temptress for the idea is crazy. I liked that it had the double meaning but I was more invested in getting cute fox ears.”

“I’ll mention that in the email I’ve started drafting. I’m going to make this happen for you, Lisa. Go introduce yourself to your new teammates with your new name. There, email sent, I’m hanging up now, good night.”

I slip a “Ciao" in before he hangs up on me. Checking my phone, I realise with only a very small bit of regret that it’s way after his normal office hours. He had probably been making dinner or something. Then I sort of loiter for a bit, unsure of what to do. There's nothing with Piggot, or with Assault, or Costuming any longer. All I have left for today is to sneak off and find somewhere to sleep.

Except, I realise, I won’t have to try that hard anymore. I’d been reliably informed that I am now officially a Ward, and also that the Wards HQ beneath the PRT offices had a place for the team to crash. My team, now, at least in theory.

Weird to think about.

I don't have a map of the building but I didn’t exactly need one. The one elevator that leads to the Wards HQ is somewhat conspicuous. I’ve passed by it half a dozen times today already and had been down it once during the tour. I put my phone away and set off.

When I arrive a minute later, I see a familiar face—or a familiar visor at least. Triumph still isn’t in costume, but apparently in semi-public the done thing was to keep wearing our masks. I'm going to keep doing double takes over seeing an otherwise ordinary highschooler, dressed like an asshole, wearing a big weird mask. I’ll have to figure out what unspoken powers make the masks actually work on anyone at all.

He’s loitering next to the elevator control panel, a very ordinary brown paper bag with handles next to his shiny white shoes.

"So it’s official?” Triumph asks, once he hears my footsteps and looks up from his device. “You’re with us?”

“Yessir, sir captain sir,” I say, stopping a few feet away from him.

“You don’t have to do that. I only took over as Wards captain from Snowdrift a few weeks ago."

“Triumph, then? The names-and-costumes thing still feels so silly.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he says. He sticks his hand out awkwardly towards me for a handshake. Again. Did he forget? “What’s yours, by the way?”

"We're still haggling," I say as I take his proffered hand and shake without much enthusiasm. "Vixen, I hope, but we'll see how it goes. And I am so new that I do not actually know who Snowdrift is."

That was a lie. I’d come here in the first place because I knew there was a thriving cape scene. While I’d always thought of the Wards as secondary, I still included them in my scan of the local cape community. It’s only barely a lie though—I don't know much more about Snowdrift besides that she exists and isn’t here anymore. But people are going to think I'm a snoop just because of my power even without my help, if my conversation with Green is anything to go by.

"Our last captain,” Triumph explains. “She hated the Bay, got a transfer so she could attend college while working somewhere else. Anyway, I’ll give you the rundown. You'll bring us back to seven: You, me, Vista, Clockblocker, Gallant, Aegis, and Kid Win. You can think of Glory Girl and Panacea like they're they’re on the team too, kind of. We’re friendly. Glory Girl works with us a lot and Panacea doesn't go out on missions or patrols but… she's Panacea."

"Yeah, stay on the healer's good side," I agree. “Shouldn’t be too hard. So, uh, why were you waiting here for me?”

"Three things. I didn’t know if you’ve had your retina scans put into the system yet, wasn’t sure if you’d be able to get into HQ. Second, I wanted to check your comfort levels. How do you want to be introduced to the team? Do you want a group meeting to get to know everyone all at once, meet them one-on-one so you’re not the centre of attention, put it off till we get to practise and briefings?"

"Might as well get it out of the way whenever we can," I say with a shrug. “What’s the third reason?”

“Assault brought the team food, to celebrate,” Triumph said, tapping the brown paper bag by his foot with the edge of his shoe. He flashes me a very white smile. “He also told me we’d be sparring with him tomorrow if anyone nabbed your food before you got to it, so I decided to look after it personally.”

“That's awfully considerate of you,” I said. Considerate enough to make me suspicious.

Closed, guarded stance, hands close to body, little gesticulation: stiff and uncomfortable in current conversation. Insecure about being seen as a leader. Insecure about place on Wards team, powers, personal charisma. Insecurity about interacting with other parahumans stems from guilt, poor self-image.

Poor self-image clashes with attention to dress, grooming: result of recent epiphanies. Recent personal epiphany tied to self-loathing, deliberate attempts to change behavior, attempts to be friendly are a conscious effort rather than force-of-habit.

“So,” Triumph asks, and I startle when I realize I’ve been staring into space for a few seconds without saying anything. “What’ll it be?”

“I guess… don’t call a meeting, exactly, but the rest of the Wards will be in and out of HQ, right?” I ask, dropping the line of inquiry my power was feeding me. I would have all the time in the world to figure out what made him tick… later, when I wasn’t exhausted. It was probably safe to explain at least a bit of my deal to him. “I… don’t really have anywhere else to stay, so I’ll be around. People can say hi whenever.”

"All right, I can set that up. Vista and Gallant should be back from a patrol soon, and I'll get in touch with the rest, let them know you’re official," he goes on while I scrutinise him. He earns a point for not visibly sneering at my admission that I was homeless. "I also wanted to say before anyone else could start hectoring you that you're under no obligation to share your identity. You can come to me if anyone gives you a hard time about that."

I tilt my head to one side. "Drama?"

"It's more that I want to avoid drama,” he says, punching the button for the lift. The metal grates slid apart with a whisper to admit us, and I’m in the moment I pick up the bag my sandwich is in. “Some of us knew each other before getting our powers. We all go to the same school, except Vista, so we’re working pretty hard to stay chill with each other."

"I can be chill, probably. And it sounds like it'd be a headache to make everyone keep masking in our secret tree fort," I say, tilting my domino up for a moment like tipping a cap without removing it entirely. "I'm Lisa."

"Rory."

He taps out of the conversation while he texts the Wards returning from patrol. I try to think about my dinner instead of drama. The elevator door opens smoothly and we step out into a polished metal corridor. I make my way down towards the place I’ll be living for the foreseeable future. I'm not ready to call it home.

The Wards HQ is probably the most protected part of the entire facility, buried underground and encased in multiple layers of armour plate. I'd stopped by during my tour to make sure I had access. I didn't. It took half an hour and two people from tech support and security to sort out why it wasn't behaving. This time, as I stick my eyeball up next to the scanner, it opens for me on the first try. Surreal.

The doors open, revealing that I'm the first to make it here. The room is basically shaped like a tit: one big round circle at the edges, going up to a gently sloping ceiling with a big hexagonal overhead lamp right in the center. There’s couches scattered semi-randomly around the room, and they look a bit ragged but worn and soft and comfy. Whiteboards and corkboards and blackboards cover many of the walls or stand up on little rolling frames, and I’m really looking forward to deciphering them once I’m done with my sandwich and have slept for a year. A central console hangs from the ceiling, with rolling chairs pushed up against the little desktop spaces beneath it.

I drop myself into one of the couches near the cluster of monitors. Most of them are asleep save for one which helpfully informs me that the next tour group won't be arriving until next morning. Tour groups through my crash pad, kill me. I peer into one of the blank ones as a makeshift mirror so that I can straighten out my hair and make sure I don't look too rough around the edges, although there's still only so much I can do. I don’t look or feel very heroic at the moment. I look and feel lost.

The moment I get a chance to breathe I’m going on a shopping spree. I know I have a stipend due to me, but I totally forget when the money’s gonna come and I desperately need a wardrobe and a vanity. Come to think of it, my first priority should be figuring out the dress code at the school they're sending me. It would be preppy, presumably. I guess I wasn’t really paying attention to what ‘Arcadia’ was, but surely they wouldn’t throw me in with gen pop, right? Either way, I really doubt that ‘ratty homeless girl chic’ is going to be acceptable.

My mental planning and cataloguing is interrupted by a klaxon and every monitor suddenly lighting up to tell me I need to mask up. A moment later Triumph strolls in through the security door, with two younger Wards in tow. They're both still in costume, which makes identifying them easy. Still, Triumph introduces them as he spots me.

"New girl, meet Vista and Gallant," he says, indicating each in turn. I give them a lazy wave from where I'm lounging, then take off my mask to break the ice.

"Vixen," I say, feeling more confident that it'll stick every time I introduce myself. I don't know how you're supposed to bring up your civilian name, though, so I just go for it. "Or Lisa."

Vista is all smiles as she removes her visor, blonde hair developing gentle waves as whatever tinkertech cosmetic feature that was keeping it straight no longer has any purchase. I let my power take in the smile—she’s looking forward to not being the only girl on the team post-Snowdrift, apparently. Being around the boys—or at least around Gallant—intimidates her.

"I'm Missy," she says. She looks ready to go on, but stops herself and glances up at Gallant for input.

"Her costume is way cooler than yours," I tell him before he can respond.

Gallant laughs, now free of his helmet. He's yet another blond, making three of us so far. Horrible stuff. I needed more dye to fix this problem.

"She does have a very cool costume,” he admits.

Vista—Missy—beams at him.

“I'm Dean, Dean Stansfield," he says, walking over to shake my hand. "My pleasure, I’m sure."

"Charmed," I say, watching him closely as he sits down across from me, the couch creaking as it shifts under the weight of his embellished armour. Vista-Missy takes up a spot next to him. "So how do we do this? Hobby, powers, one fun fact?"

"Powers always come up sooner or later, if you don't mind sharing," Triumph says as he takes off his mask and sits down, completing a triangle between us. "We'll need to know, eventually, but we haven't heard anything yet."

"They don't tell us anything about new members," Vista says with an exaggerated sigh. "I only found out that you were joining when Triumph said we should come meet you."

Triumph, not Rory. That raises a question. "So, when do you use which name?"

"Cape name when masks are on or working on anything official. Real name when masks-off, more or less," Rory says. "In here it's kind of a grey area. Whatever makes it easiest to avoid using the wrong one at school or on patrol."

Dean nods. “In mixed company, think about the setting, default to that. At school we’re all the names our parents gave us, by default. In here, the default is the names we chose.”

“Got it,” I say, to hurry the conversation along. I can feel my shawarma getting colder in my lap.

“So, Rory said you’d be spending a lot of time at HQ,” Missy says. I try not to frown at her or any of my other new teammates.

“Yes…?”

"Orphan, or shitty parents?" she asks me, with surprising bluntness. Isn't she, like, twelve? She’s not afraid to meet my eyes.

Triumph looks about ready to say something, maybe scold her, but I preempt him.

"The latter.”

“Hey, I’m really sorry,” Missy says. It sounds like it should be a lie. My power’s telling me she’s being honest.

“I did get a pretty swanky power, though,” I tell her, leaning in conspiratorially. Maybe it’ll get her mind off the sympathy. “I've got a superintuition that lets me put together details, Sherlock Holmes-style. I could figure out where you patrolled earlier by looking at the dirt on your shoes."

"Oh, my girlfriend is going to love you," Gallant says. "And Dr. Marin as well, I guess. For your sake, I hope you end up liking the power testing chambers. They’ll want you in there every chance they can get."

“Speaking of powers,” I say, because I was so deeply uninterested in hearing this guy gush about his lame girlfriend. “I’ve told you mine, wanna tell me yours? Or you could make me figure it out, but—”

“Bending space, it’s pretty awesome,” Missy says. She’s found the rest of the sandwiches Assault left in a different bag, and passes one to Dean over her shoulder.

“We don’t even know what she’s capable of yet,” Rory-slash-Triumph says. “We haven’t found her upper limits. I know mine, at least. I’m tough and I yell loud.”

“What he means is that he can create blasts of sound powerful enough to break through walls,” Dean says. He throws a foil-wrapped sandwich across the room at his leader, who lazily catches it in one hand. Long experience as an athlete, according to my power. I do not care in the slightest. “He’s being modest.”

“Well, cut it out,” I tell Rory, barely looking at him, instead focusing on Dean. “And you, big guy? You make big metal suits?”

Dean looks a bit sheepish. In other words: that’s a no.

“Oh, liar liar,” I tell him.

Missy whistles and Dean grimaces. Rory sounds deeply amused as he asks, "Power, or is he getting worse at hiding it?"

"My power confirmed it, but he looked super guilty, too."

“The armour’s a gift from the Kid,” Dean says. “The energy blasts are my real power.”

"The ones that fuck with people’s heads?" It clicks. Suddenly a lot of things about Gallant make sense all of a sudden. "You're an emotional manipulator."

“I’m not happy about it either,” he says, looking slightly pained. "You should know, I can tell what people are feeling as well."

It takes half a second for the implications to sink in. My skin crawls as I feel every hair along my arms stand up in a wave. I suddenly understood in a very visceral way what Chambers was on about, how psychics made people uncomfortable. The thought of Gallant picking apart in real time all the fear and anxiety and regret and bleak helplessness of the past few days...

My fingernails dig into the arm of the chair.

Dean shifts again, getting progressively closer towards squirming as he looks away. Information drips from my power into my head like water through a sieve. He’s picked up on my present feelings, and he knows I know that he knows, and—and I cut off my power from continuing the feedback loop.

"I– I can't actually turn it off, it's just part of how this all works," he says, sounding like he's about to start babbling in his hurry to explain himself.

I force a carefree smile onto my face as I bite my tongue. "Sounds rough. Also, I’m you, but stronger. I can do that too, but my power works on anything, not just emotions. Also, maybe mine can end up telling me a lot of things that are better off unshared, but I can kind of turn it off. Maybe you should try harder?"

"Yeah," he says. He returns an anxiety-edged smile as he turns to look at me again.

I have mercy on him for the moment, and I try to push the conversation along. More to the point, I’m trying to find a way to exit it. Knowing my emotions were under a microscope destroyed whatever solace I’d found here in the last five minutes. "Do you get the headaches?"

He shakes his head. "I don’t think I know what you mean."

"Oh, you'd know," I say. It’s hard not to feel jealous as I shake my head. "I want what you have.”

Dean doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. Great, I was making friends already. Time to leave.

“Anyway, uh, not to be a huge bitch,” I say, “but I don’t think I’ve eaten or slept in at least a day, so…"

I stand up with my sandwich—I stumble a bit as I get out of the chair—and Rory points me towards what was apparently Snowdrift’s old room. A couple of ‘bye, Lisa’s' of varying enthusiams chase me out of the main room. I close and lock the little dorm room door behind me. It’s hardly more than a bed and a desk, but it’s mine.

Now that nobody can see me to judge me, I finally try to relax. I wolf down the food that someone else bought for me, and lie down in the bed that someone else made for me. I look up at the arc of the ceiling above me. Before I can think too hard about how much my life just changed, the riptide current of exhaustion carries me off to sleep.

Notes:

I'm always very leery about OCs, having grown up on a general fandom disdain for how they're generally handled. But the PRT needs more than, like, two people working there who aren't capes. So I try to make them only when necessary and make them distinct at least. We've now met or heard mentioned all three that will get a significant role, at least that I've planned out so far. And as we go we'll get far more actual capes in this cape fic. But at least we've met some Wards now!

As always, etherealDesign has been amazing. I'm a better and more conscientious writer thanks to her, and the quality here is way higher than it would be. I frankly should be paying her. <3

Chapter 5: Breach 1.5

"I really don't know why I'm even here," I groan as I slouch further down in my seat.

“Cause it beats walking?”

I snort, the seatbelt digging into my neck, and go on as if Ethan hadn't said anything. "There's less than a month before summer vacation. What's even the point of me showing up this late?”

“Free access to history textbooks. They’re storybooks with pictures; what’s not to love?”

I glare at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He’s unmasked, which once I'd have been shocked by, but after the week I’ve had nothing feels like it’ll shock me anymore. He just looks like the kind of guy who should be busting his ass falling off his surfboard in Cali or something.

“It's just going to be suspicious having me dropping in just as this new quirky blonde heroine shows up. I could start in the fall. Seriously, what's even the point of this?"

"Oh, I know the answer to this one,” he says, taking a moment to meet my eyes in the mirror. Then the light changes and he hits the gas. “Because if you didn't, the next time you check in with your case worker, she'd ask: where's your report card? And you'd say: I don't have one, I deliberately ignored your instructions. Then she dashes off, right to Piggot and the YG, and notifies them of this disastrous noncompliance."

"I wasn’t exactly doing my homework this year," I say, waving him off, "given I was homeless for most of it. I'm going to have a grade drop no matter what unless I shamelessly cheat my way through."

"What I'm hearing is that you didn't file Form 306C: Advance Notification of Unanticipated Circumstances, so that's on you."

He finally gets a smile out of me but I make sure he can hear my huff of indignation. It's not his fault that bureaucracy is dumb as shit, but still, this sucks. I’d suggested grabbing my GED and skipping high school entirely but that got shut down by literally everyone involved, including that traitor Castillo. They pointed out that I was just going to use my power to cheat my way through—obviously, what else is it for?—and something asinine about the importance of socialising with my peers.

I don't know how they expect me to cram half a year into three weeks and not fail everything without using my power, but none of that is Ethan's fault. He's doing me a favour here by driving me to Arcadia High. I'd left the PRT HQ a few times to shop and file school paperwork; the relief of no longer being so cooped up was soured by my compulsive need to scan the city streets beyond the windows of the bus. I've been stuck so long inside a secure facility that I probably need a week or two to get used to being in crowds again.

I make a few more half-hearted complaints on the way before the superhero shooes me from his car and out onto the student parking lot of Arcadia High. It's a hell of a lot bigger than my old school by virtue of being in a big city instead of the most evil suburbs in the universe. It's also crowded. At my dreadful Catholic private school there were probably never more than 600 teachers and students combined, across all four grades.. At a glance, my power tells me Arcadia houses four or five times as many.

My new peers are heading for the entrances at doors on the inside of the massive ‘H’ shape of the building, and I slip in line behind them. How easy would it be to sneak into a place like this? It's got a fence around it with little guardhouses at the entrances. So many people flowing in and out that anyone with a backpack could probably slip by anyway, as long as they looked like they knew what they were doing.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

No one's watching me. No one cares about me, and that's a good thing.

I just have to get used to crowds again.

---

The Wards almost all go to the same school but I haven’t yet seen a familiar face. We don't seem to share any classes. It could be happenstance—the school is so goddamn big that we could easily miss each other by chance—but maybe we’ve been spread apart for security reasons.

It takes but I actually do end up seeing someone I recognise. I walk into my physics class, give the patter I’ve practiced all day—my name is, I’m new here, can I sit anywhere—and look for an open seat. A blonde girl in an elegant halter top in the middle of the second-to-last row helpfully motions towards the open desk behind her with her thumb. I start walking over to slide between the last row of chairs and the wall to my seat.

Then I do a double take. Right before I sit down I steal a glance back at the blonde girl, and see Glory Girl staring back at me.

Glory Girl is in class with me and everyone else is just pretending like this is normal. A cold trickle of anxiety starts to work its way down my spine. My shoulders raise and tense up as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It's possible that she's just curious about a mysterious student appearing in the last few weeks of class. Transfers probably never show up this late in the term, right? Or, maybe, I make for such a striking figure that she can’t look away. Maybe that's it.

Except, I don't believe in coincidences anymore. My power only confirms what I already knew; she knows exactly who I am. Alarm bells start ringing in my mind.

I sit down behind her, which at least lets me break eye contact. She isn't willing to turn around in her seat to keep staring at me. Sitting outside her line of sight makes me feel safer, but it's a mixed blessing. It's a lot harder to use my power to pick apart whatever it is she's thinking when I can't see her reactions.

Not exactly how I expected or wanted to meet a new cape.

I was never planning to pay attention to the lecture in the first place. Now I couldn’t if I tried. My focus narrows and I force myself to regulate my breathing, trying to figure out what I’d done to deserve this and how to escape the situation. The only thing that keeps me from obsessing for the entire period is the folded piece of graph-ruled paper that she slips onto my desk about half an hour in.

I carefully unfold the note on my thigh, flattening it out with more care than is probably necessary, to read:

  Need to talk with you

 -Victoria

There's a phone number scribbled below. The whole thing is penned in a smooth, loopy cursive that's only missing heart-dotted i's.

I stare at the note, reading it half a dozen times before I squeeze my eyes shut to think.

On the one hand, this is holding my attention far more than the lecture. I didn’t want to test whether a person could literally die of boredom that much. On the other hand, the only phone I have is PRT-issue. As far as I know, no one’s discreetly checking my texts—and I have used my power to check—but despite that I might not want to gossip on a work phone during class hours.

On the other other hand Glory Girl—or Victoria, I guess, out of costume—knows my face and wants to talk. Sitting around and stewing over that for the next hours or days doesn't sound like fun.

I make a mental note to get myself a personal phone as I punch in the provided number and turn my phone to silent.

 yea?

She must have been watching her screen and waiting for me to reply: I get an instant response out of her.

 hey
 lisa, right?

She cranes her neck around, looking back for visual confirmation from me as surreptitiously as possible. In the fraction of a second that I see her face I quiz my power: happy no sad no angry yes angry with me no. Then she looks away. Okay. That’s a start. For now at least she’s obviously just trying to be cautious about cape stuff, just in case, which makes sense.

 yea

 k good
 just making sure

There's a lengthy pause, and it's hard to not stare at her. Either she's about to drop a paragraphs-long text or she's deleted it three or four times now. So I decide to prod her:

 do u give ur number to every new person you meet or...?

I can just barely hear her sigh as she reads the text.

 k i need to apologise
 im glory girl and i know that ur part of the wards

I stare at her response for a moment before looking up at her. There's a certain relief in not having to second-guess myself or wonder about that anymore. It still leaves far more new questions than it answers. She's pretending to pay attention to the class again, head up but stealing glances down at her own phone every couple seconds. She looks about as anxious as I feel, which surprises me.

 Distracted from class. Timing during class indicates urgency, time taken till approach indicates counterbalancing anxiety. Reduction in shoulder tension and restlessness; diminishing signs of anxiety as conversation continues.

No, that's not quite it then if she'd mostly been anxious about approaching me. Something else is eating at her. Having a conversation like this—looking at her hair instead of her face, without tone of voice to provide clues—is extremely frustrating. I wish the classroom walls were made of mirrors, just for my power’s benefit.

 yeah i uh know who u are lol
 figured that one out
 i wear a mask tho so how do u know me

Victoria is back to typing the literal second I hit send. I hadn’t even thought she was looking down. I don't actually get a chance to read her reply.

"Lisa."

My attention snaps upwards towards the teacher whose name I’ve already forgotten. "Yeah?"

That gets a laugh out of the room. I’d evidently been asked a question and not given the answer that Mr. Whatshisname was looking for. I glance between the man and the board and for fuck's sake, really? Yes I wasn't paying attention, but picking on me for a volunteer when I haven't been in the class all year? Unfortunately for Mr. Whoareyouagain there's enough on the board for my power and some half-remembered trig to work things out.

"It's zero."

There's a hint of a frown—Teach definitely knew I wasn't paying attention, which makes this an especially major dick move of a callout.

"And why is it zero?"

"Because the vectors are opposite each other, so you get the sine of 180 which is zero?" I offer, biting my tongue before I add anything that gets me sent to the principal's office. My answer either annoys him further or mollifies him. I don't care which it is as it gets him to move on with the next problem on the board. I wait for him to start writing something new before checking my phone again.

 i wasnt trying to pry
 i was with dean and he was talking about getting a new teammate
 i wouldve stopped him if i knew where he was going with it
 also nice save

Something clicks.

 wait wait wait
 hold the phone
 ur dating GALLANT?

I remember that he mentioned having a girlfriend who'd love talking about my power, something that at the time I'd pushed right past on account of him sounding boring as fuck. In retrospect, who else our age would I be talking powers to but another cape? Well, oops. Probably should have seen that one coming.

Victoria texts furiously, phone hidden between her thigh and the underside of her desk.

 dean, not gallant. officially
 so we can go out in public w/o linking dean and gallant
 and actually no
 we are fucking not
 he can go fuck himself
 i dont even want to look at him right now
 “hey lemme tell you about my new teammate lisa!” MORON!!!!!!
 he should have known, it's EXACTLY the same kind of thing that had us being careful with HIS identity
 he didn't even think about it
 It was like this side note to get out of the way before he got to what he really wanted to talk about

Why does her grammar get better when she's mad? She doesn't get a chance to build up any more steam, though. Victoria gets a little too into her texting frenzy and finally gets caught. Mr. Havewemet had walked quietly into the center of the classroom and is now peering down at my classmate through his thick spectacles.

"Victoria, I know you know the material, but this is getting to the point of disrupting my class. Please hand your cell phone to me until the end of the period."

"Sorry, I actually can't let it out of my possession. Cape stuff?" That gets a much louder laugh out of the room than my thing did. "No, really, I can go grab Armsmaster to confirm it for me."

Teach looks suddenly out of his depth.

"If you need to take fifteen minutes out in the hall you can ask," he says with the sigh of someone giving up.

"No, I'm good. It's almost lunch anyways."

A moment after he turns away from her, she steals a glance back at me to check my reaction. I belatedly realise that she’s caught me smiling at her; I’d been amused by the sheer brazenness of pulling rank on a teacher more than anything else. I try to clamp down on it, fast, but it’s too late. She notices, winks at me, then turns around to pretend to focus on class again. I’m already texting her though.

 smooth

I'm not sure how sarcastic I’m being. I guess Victoria can choose to take it however she wants. She doesn't respond right away, opting to let the heat die down instead, which gives me time to pore over the text string again and think.

She's not worried I'm mad at her—maybe she was at one point before we started, but definitely not now. Everything about how she’s texting and acting towards me has opened up. She's definitely upset with Dean, though. Really upset, if this was as breakup-worthy as implied. I get that it was kind of a serious faux pas and definitely a security hazard, but—oh.

This is what Triumph was on about when he was talking about avoiding drama when we first met, isn't it? Everyone’s in the same school, all trying to be chill with each other, trying to avoid crossing any lines. Well, it took less than a day for a line to get crossed. If I’m surprised by any part of this it’s that I’m genuinely not to blame.

I catch sight of Victoria going back to surreptitiously texting, and I reposition my own phone.

 like yea i'm kinda sorta part of the team but
 this wans't his decision to make!!!
 can u believe he tried to blow past that fuckup when i called him on it??
 “ur overreacting ur gonna meet her anyway” like ???
 i didnt want to ambush u about cape stuff but he'd already let ur name slip
 so i thought u should know

I steal another glance upwards. She's not quite glued to her phone, but she's not paying attention to class either. The teacher studiously ignores her. She's probably going to get chewed out later, but apparently this is worth it to her.

New Wave doesn't do secret identities; is that why she's taking this so personally? Or is it simply convenient to make this about herself: to use me, just to vent her spleen at her boyfriend/ex.

I feel a moment's irritation.

 and that pissed u off?

There's a long stretch of Victoria typing, deleting text, and typing again, and then:

 he's ur TEAMMATE

I'm kind of curious what she wrote in the first six tries. There's another long stretch of typing. After two minutes of near-silence I get seven texts from her, rapidfire.

 he doesnt take this shit seriously at all!!
 he should be the one getting pissed off for someone outing you
 not me
 but hes not
 and it just makes me
 fuck!
 wards are supposed to be better than that

The fit of pique that I'd been nurturing bleeds away. Okay, so she’s not as self-centered as she looks. I wasn't expecting that.

 dunno, seems par for the course to me

 then it's a shitty course
 fuck it
 u deserve better

I look at that last text for a long time. Someone is legitimately and honestly angry on my behalf. Has that ever happened before? Pity is everywhere these days, and it’s cheap. It’s gotten to the point where I’m getting it from tweens, which I’m pretty sure is the definition of rock bottom. So, I'm used to being pitied, and I’m not a fan. Victoria is just mad. Maybe her anger is rooted in her frustrations about her own life, but I'm finding it hard to hate her for it.

I genuinely don't know how to feel about this righteous indignation.

So, I deflect.

 im already out to the wards
 u all know each other
 it was gonna happen

The bell goes off at the exact moment I hit send, startling me. It's covered by the sound of two dozen desks scraping as everyone starts to move at once. The teacher says something about homework that I'm not paying attention to. I snatch up my own things and hurry out into the hall. I needn't have rushed; Victoria gets held back for a minute, presumably to get yelled at for texting in class.

I loiter against the wall by the door and watch the flood of unfamiliar faces hurrying past me, trying to keep my power from picking every single one of them apart. I don’t want to know about their little lives. A minute or so later Victoria emerges from physics, spots me, and smiles. I can’t tell if she looks relieved or anxious. It’s a different thing to speak to someone face-to-face rather than texting them, I guess. For her benefit I pick up the conversation where we left off.

"So yeah, like I said, it was gonna happen sooner or later. Everyone already knows each other, right? Besides," I say, leaning towards her conspiratorily, "It's kind of a sausage party in there. It'll be nice to have someone I can actually go shopping with."

She's not the one who fucked up, after all. I’ll have to figure out what to say to Dean, and I have no idea how to handle that, but it at least retroactively justifies my immediate dislike of him. I love when that happens. Victoria, though, is safe. I'm not about to get mad at her for, what, learning a secret accidentally and being upset about it?

Okay, maybe I can think of a lot of cases where I definitely would have held it against her, but I'm in desperate need of an in with the school social scene. Victoria is a hell of an in. Her hair is incredible despite flying all the time, her fashion sense is on point, and she genuinely seems interested in talking to me. I could do worse.

"It was still a shitty thing to do," she says, visibly relaxing as I appease her. "He's going to be apologising if I have anything to say about it."

“It’s fine,” I say. Having to sit down and hear Dean apologise sounds pretty lame. He might even expect one in return if things came to that, to make amends for what a bitch I’d been. Pass. Plus it sounds like Victoria never got around to learning what he actually had to say, presumably whining about me hurting his feelings.

“It’s really not—”

"It really is. I'm past it, although I appreciate your eagerness to defend my honour," I interrupt as I flash her a smile. "If you really feel like helping soothe my ruffled feathers, you could treat me to lunch?"

To my surprise, she agrees.

"Finest dry wraps and overbaked ziti our school cafeteria has to offer, on me. Let’s go meet up with my sister. Amy and I eat together if I’m not with Dean instead, and, well..."

"A chance to butter up the healer girl, just in case I ever need her to save my life. Perfect."

Victoria laughs, the tension continuing to drain out of her. She has a nice laugh, clear and vibrant as the sound of a bell. I never understood that metaphor till just now. She leans in to whisper, "Word of advice: don't bring that up to her. She works pretty hard and sometimes she gets cranky about it."

I mime turning a key at the corner of my mouth and tossing it away. "I am the very essence of grace and tact."

She hesitates at my gesture. "And did you want to keep things quiet around her? Dean wouldn’t have told her, they don’t really talk, so I haven't told her yet and…"

And Victoria doesn't want to be a gigantic hypocrite.

"At this point I honestly don't care. If this blows up I’ll discard my name and vanish into the night; next year you’ll meet a suspiciously familiar girl named Alias Pseudonym. No, please don’t worry about it. Buy me lunch and all will be well."

I'm no longer in rags or castoffs anymore, but my clothing is about as plain as possible. The contrast between us is pretty stark and I’m feeling decidedly self-conscious before long. I know that she notices, but she's polite enough not to comment on my discomfort, instead filling dead air by asking me what classes I'm in and giving opinions on all my teachers.

It’s interesting to watch her move. Victoria walks with a lightness to her step that makes her look like she's practically skimming across the ground. I can barely hear her soles hit the tiled floor. I wonder for a moment if she's doing exactly that—she can fly, and her identity is already public knowledge—but my power suggests otherwise. It's just the way she walks after years of combat training and martial arts that emphasise mobility and staying light on the balls of her feet.

The training definitely shows. She chose her outfit to showcase her athleticism as much as her figure. It's the kind of thing people throw statuesque about to describe. Victoria’s actually got the Alexandria look, far more than most of the triumvir's clones. Then she ruined it by picking Glory Girl for a name, which I’m just waiting for a chance to make her regret.

At this distance it's also obvious that she's naturally blonde, her hair extremely pale to the point where I would have expected it to be bleached. Bleach can't reproduce her subtle warm undertones, though, and there are zero signs of darker roots showing. She's an actual platinum blonde, spotted in the wild.

We find her sister loitering near the entrance to the cafeteria, in a corner of a crowded lobby. She definitely looks a little grouchy, although I can't really hold that against her. She was made to wait, as Victoria immediately falls over herself apologising for. This happily gives me a moment to size her up while she's distracted. I can't help myself.

The difference between her and Victoria is night and day. Amy Dallon is the very embodiment of plain. She's not all that tall or short—I have maybe two inches on her—and has tangled brown hair. She needs conditioner and a better hairbrush, and something to help the dark bags under her eyes. She has a sour expression at rest, although a smile crosses her freckled face upon seeing her sister. If I didn’t know she was a cape, I’d certainly never guess from the unremarkable way she dresses. I probably wore my ratty homeless hoodie better than she wears the shapeless long-sleeved top she's sporting. ‘Stuffed into a burlap sack’ indeed.

The side-by-side comparison to Victoria is a little sad. Amy’s not even ugly, just a cautionary tale of what happens when you don't put in the work to be pretty.

Victoria, of course, is looking at her like she’s the best thing since sliced bread. Once she's finished apologising, she motions from me to her and back again and says, "Amy, meet Lisa. She’s… a friend of Dean’s. He told me about her before she had a chance to introduce herself properly."

To Amy’s credit, it doesn’t take more than a moment for her to figure out what the hell Victoria is talking about.

"Is that why you two were fighting?” she asks. “You've been cagey as hell about that."

"Yeah, I wanted to set things straight with her before, y'know."

Amy gives me a not-at-all subtle once-over. Dubious at first, her head tilted to look at me at an angle and fingers brushing her neck. She does a double-take halfway through, her gaze lingering on my hair—

Okay, she is definitely checking me out. Whatever. I catch her eye and give her a crooked smirk. I decide to take it as a compliment as long as she takes the hint. She does, blushes, and figures out how to keep her eyes from wandering south of my neck.

"I'm not sure whether to thank you for getting her to shut up about him,” Amy says to me, “Or to tell you off for getting her to pointedly not talk about him very loudly for the past few days."

"Why not both?" I say, as I watch Victoria swat at her sister.

"Amy."

"What? It’s been days of you making such a point about how you’re not texting or talking to or thinking about Dean.”

“Ergo, she’s thinking about Dean?”

Amy nods. Victoria hisses ‘traitors’ at us, not-quite under her breath.

“They’re going to be back together sooner or later," Amy says. Amy Dallon is stunningly easy to read, even without my power. The resentment is just dripping off of her and it's genuinely remarkable that Victoria hasn't seemed to have noticed.

"Not the first time?" I ask.

"I dunno, this is the third breakup maybe? Only counting official ones."

“Dude’s whipped.”

“You have no idea,” Amy says. She jerks a thumb towards her sister. “She’s just as bad. Give it three days: one more to stew, one to come up with a plan, and the third to manouevre him into an apology. Then it’ll be like nothing happened.”

"Nope, you’re wrong, it'll be the last time if he doesn't stop acting like such a twat," Victoria cuts in. Her cheeks have started turning pink. "And we really should be getting lunch. Hey, you’re both hungry, right? Looks like we missed the line. Let’s go now if we want enough time to eat."

She herds us along, between the rows of lunch tables like she’s used to giving orders. Like she said there’s no line, and she orders herself a wrap in between giving advice about the school lunches and checking in with her sister about her day. I can hardly get a word in edgewise to keep messing with her. The girl has charisma.

Once Victoria and Amy get to talking, I get a moment to step back, listen and think. I'm getting into the habit of scheming. Well, maybe not scheming, but I can't think of a better way to describe it. When I meet someone new it’s second nature, now, to pick apart what I know about them and what they’re trying to hide. I don't know yet if that's a good or a bad habit, but what I learn makes it too interesting to stop.

Amy's adopted, that’s for sure. I feel like it shouldn’t be a surprise, given how different they look. They're awfully close despite that. They move instinctively as a pair while we search for an unoccupied table, Victoria blazing a trail for Amy to follow. When we do find a place—right in the middle of the cafeteria, where it’s too loud for us to be overheard—Victoria sits down opposite me, and Amy takes up a spot by her side.

Before I can dig deeper into their dynamic, Victoria puts a hand into my hair. I go limp with shock like a scruffed cat and look up at her as she peers down at me like she’s searching for something.

"I… what?"

Victoria runs her fingers through my hair, almost from root to end, and I’m very glad I spent two hours yesterday brushing out all the tangles. She lifts my dyed ends up for inspection, frowns, and tells me, "You know, I'm not sure blue suits you."

“And I’m not sure your cape name suits you,” I retort before I can help myself, “but I didn’t make a comment about how bad Glory Hole is—”

Victoria unhands me and doubles over so quickly I’m afraid she’ll bang her head on the table. Worse, if I’ve upset her… I probably just lost the only friend I’d made in longer than I can remember. Then I remember she’s invincible and hear the muffled sounds of laughter; she’s not crying behind her crossed arms, she’s cracking up. She makes a T with her hands. A time out?

“You can’t just… do that to me,” she says once she can, her voice shaky and weak. She looks up at me through her arms and her blue eyes are streaming with laughter. “Out of nowhere? During lunch? If I’d been eating I’d have choked.”

“No one’s been brave enough to call you that before?”

“Enough of a jackass, more like,” Amy mutters. She’s glaring at me with crossed arms, which is to be fair the reaction I’d expected from both of them a moment ago.

Victoria just shakes her head, so I tell her, “I’m sorry you had to find out this way: everyone’s thinking it. I read about you after your debut and my first thought was, love her costume, and my second was, but doesn’t that sound like…? Everyone at school must be too afraid of getting their ass kicked by someone who can bench a train car to call you out on it.”

As I speak, Victoria seems like she’s getting herself under control. She nods along with the last sentence, wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath and says, “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” I counter.

“Well, this name’s going into the trash the moment I turn eighteen, I guess,” she muses. “I was on the fence about a rebrand before, but…”

Amy raises a hand. “I like Glory Girl, if that matters.”

Victoria brightens. “It does. Thanks, Ames, Anyway: Lisa, never say that where anyone else—especially the team—can hear. They’d become too powerful and I’d never hear the end of it. You I'll let get away with it because you’re nice.”

“I’m nice?”

"Mhm, and I’m sorry for being rude about your hair, by the way,” she says. I’d almost forgotten how we got onto this tangent until she brings it back. “But you have these vivid green eyes. The blue hair doesn't do anything for them. Like, it’s fine, it doesn’t clash, but a red would be really striking."

Ah. Well. Now I feel a little silly for lashing out. She pivots the apparently-accidental insult into the nicest compliment I've received in… how long? Maybe ever? I honestly can't remember. I run my fingers through my hair, catching a few strands so I can examine the dye job up close. It's seen better days, for sure; the dye’s long-since lost its lustre, instead fading to a drab grey the way I always knew it would.

"No thanks, I’m actually a soldier in the war on Christmas. That is the palette of my enemy," I say, although my voice is far too pleased to make it sound properly arch. It's also super lame, why the hell did I say that? Why didn’t I just take the compliment?

Victoria laughs anyway, somehow. "I’m not trying to make you look like a carrot, Lisa, I’m thinking of more sea-green and burgundy."

"Maybe," I say. I try to imagine what she has in mind. I’m not sure if she’s onto something or if I just want to go along with whatever the hell she says. I drop the strands of my hair to pick up my fork and start on my salad instead. "There are way too many blondes around here, what the hell is up with that? I’ll think about it. I probably should get a proper haircut first though; it's been almost a year."

Victoria looks at me, aghast. Amy looks puzzled; I realise with equal horror she hasn't had one in just as long. I push her split ends from my mind. That’s not the kind of parahuman crime I’m paid to give a shit about.

"I can point you to my stylist?" Victoria offers, drawing my attention back to her.

"Please, and any good cheap thrift shops that aren’t on the Boardwalk? My wardrobe is…" I just gesture at my clothing with my free hand, then remember something Dean told me when we’d met that I’d dismissed at the time. "In return, uh, you can talk at me about powers?”

Victoria’s eyes light up and she almost bounces in her seat. "Oh, yes, I will clear my schedule. Are you free this weekend?"

"Assuming no surprises. I have too much training to do before I can start working. They also want to run some tests on me."

"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into," Amy says. She’s inspecting the french fry she’s holding with utter focus, deliberately not paying too much attention to me. Her mood’s turned around; a minute ago she was willing to roast her sister with a near-stranger, now she’s looking at cafeteria food like it’s wronged her. Something's off. "It’s like talking to a textbook. I like it, but you’d probably be happier talking about clothes or whatever."

“Look, I'm not going to let you two pretend that powers aren't incredibly cool. Fine, I’ll out myself as a nerd, but honestly everyone else is weird for not thinking that being able to fly or move things with your mind or whatever is the coolest most important thing ever."

Amy's still contemplating the deep hidden meaning of her french fry as she huffs something I can’t quite hear. Victoria puts an arm around her shoulder and draws her into half of a hug.

“I know,” Victoria says.

“Not everyone gets to fly and hit things.”

“I know, Ames.”

“Having powers sucks,” Amy says, glancing at me. I'm definitely starting to get the impression that I'm only somewhat of an improvement over Dean in her eyes, just another unwelcome interloper into whatever sororal dynamic they have. ”You’ll figure it out to, soon enough. It’s only been a year and I’m… so tired of it.”

Guarded posture; uncomfortable with Sarah-self’s presence. Formerly resentful of Dean’s presence. Attention focused on Victoria. Using mockery to hide discomfort.

Well, yes, that isn't really a surprise. She's clearly got issues with her sister's boyfriend. I can't fault her for that. I do too, but—

Victoria pulls Amy closer and presses her head against Amy’s hair. “Whenever you feel that way, just think about all the people you’ve saved, okay? You matter so much to so many people, especially to me. Remember, I was your first.”

Only now does Amy close her eyes and visibly relax, and my power picks up where it left off.

Highly aware of and attentive to Victoria's presence. Enamoured with Victoria. Romantically interested in Victoria. Sexually interested in Victoria.

Oh fuck.

Maybe Amy’s right: powers do suck. I really wish I didn’t know that.

Notes:

This one require a massive rewrite because the first draft sucked and thankfully ether was kind enough to tell me so. She's such a great editor. <3 It's much better now, but this took a little longer to get out as a result.

And relationship tags updated! Because I think it's pretty obvious at this point, but I didn't want anyone thinking it was going to be Vicky/Amy. I have smart readers, but you never know. I have a lot of thoughts on Lisa and relationships, but I'll spare you all right now. Just know that it is going to be thoughtful and sensitive, or at least that is my hope and intent.

On a more general note, one of the things I'm really loving about writing this is the descriptions. Taylor was very spare and utilitarian about how she viewed people's physicality, although at the same time she was really free with just being bluntly insulting. Lisa (as I'm writing her) is such a contrast, deeply reading into how people present themselves while also being, frankly, a lot more savage in her putdowns. They're a delight to put together.

Chapter 6: Breach 1.6

The third time I laugh at him for no apparent reason I finally get the reaction I wanted from Armsmaster.

“What.”

“Has no one told you how ridiculous you look?” I ask, gesturing around at the standard-issue medical exam room I’m seated in. He’s leaning against the wall, between the open door and a workplace PSA poster about something called Master-Stranger protocols. I’ve been studying the text for a few minutes—If something doesn’t seem right, it probably isn’t!—as a way to look at the hero without having to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t respond, which I assume means I have permission to continue. “You’re sitting around in an office building but, like, in a power suit. You look like a Gundam who’s nervously waiting for his colonoscopy.”

Armsmaster doesn’t seem to share my sense of humour. He shifts in his position against the wall, looks me in the eyes, and asks, “Do you know why someone tried to kidnap you a week ago, Miss Doe?”

The sudden turn catches me off-balance and before I can answer he goes on, “Because I do.”

I recoil and start looking for another escape route besides the one he’s blocking as I ask my power how much he knows, whether it was secretly him who’d tried to kidnap me. I relax as my power responds no, but only slightly.

“It’s Vixen in the mask, you dick,” I tell him, and add, “But yeah, I distinctly remember him telling me why, actually.”

“To recruit you, Vixen. I read the report. Have you put any thought into why anyone would bother?”

It still keeps me up at night sometimes, but instead of that I say, “Probably to indulge his fetish?”

Armsmaster doesn’t seem like the type to pick up on tone or social cues very well. Instead of taking the ‘I don’t want to talk about this’ hint he carries on.

“You should start taking this as seriously as the people trying to keep you safe. Do you think powers look like they do in magazines, that what makes a parahuman strong is how hard they’re able to hit things?” He leans forward, and the fluorescent overhead lighting glints off of his visor and shines on his well-groomed beard. “Consider this: if your power is half as capable as you believe it to be, you and I are two of the three strongest capes in the Bay.”

In my full and careful consideration, it sounds like he's pretty much full of shit, but before I can say so a pretty brunette in her late-twenties brushes past him and into the room.

"Good afternoon, I'm Stephanie Marin. I'm the PRT ENE Medical Director, and principal investigator for your preliminary power evaluation," she says as she drops her things on an examination table, the heavy plastic case she carries landing with a thud. She brushes back the wisps of hair that have escaped her messy ponytail, and extends a hand towards me. Her nails are mostly done in a pale pink polish, but tipped in blues, reds, and purples in the most colourful variation on a French manicure I've ever seen. "You can call me anything but Dr. Marin. I know four others, two of whom are my parents, and it got to be a mess. How would you like to be addressed?"

"All right, Steph, you can call me Vixen," I say as I take her hand, experimenting with whether she’d really prefer to be called anything else. Meanwhile my eyes are still on Armsmaster standing statue-still in his corner.

She doesn't even react to my cavalier attitude towards her. It almost takes the fun out of name-calling. Instead she takes a moment to haul a table from the corner of the room out towards the center. With a grunt of effort she pulls it the last inches she needs to get it perfectly in a spot where she can look at her laptop from her chair without letting any of the medical equipment in the room obstruct her view of me.

Steph it is, I guess.

"I expected more people here for this," I say over the squeaking of the table legs, not sure if I’m talking to Steph or Armsmaster.

"For some other parahumans we would, but your case is straightforward," Armsmaster says. There’s a free chair available in the hall that I can see from my seat, but either it can’t manage his armour’s weight or he prefers standing out of habit. “Today’s tests require no additional personnel to ensure our safety.”

"A pure Thinker power is a refreshing change of pace," Steph agrees. "Flagrant violations of the laws of physics, unquenchable flames, and Brutes realizing they can lift an extra ton more than they thought they could… this is by far the most exciting part of my job. We’ll run additional experiments in the future when the Protectorate can spare someone with powers similar to yours to provide insight, but for now we’re making do with what we have in the Bay. Armsmaster was kind enough to offer me his assistance as the closest thing to a Thinker we have on staff."

He hasn't given me the impression that he's the kind of person who likes wasting time playing twenty questions with a junior cape. His powers and mine aren’t even close to alike. My conclusion—which my power helpfully corroborates—is that he’s working an angle here. He wants something from me.

Great. I hadn’t been thrilled by his presence even before his ominous pronouncements a moment ago, and this is yet another turn for the worse. Today was always going to suck majorly, but it was one of those things I couldn’t get out of. The Protectorate is legally mandated to put me and my powers under the microscope like a new and interesting dead bug, studying the ins and outs of my power so that it can all be written down and filed away in a cabinet somewhere for others to peruse at their leisure. I’m contractually obligated to let it happen. With Armsmaster—and, presumably, his lie detector—here, downplaying or dissembling about my capabilities is a lot more complicated.

"If you have any questions, feel free to ask me instead of your power,” Steph says, and I realize she’s looking at me intently. “I don't want to run the risk of giving you a migraine."

"Do I have a tell?" I ask, and can't help but feel a little sheepish at being called out. Being discreet about using my power is a lot harder now that I'm around people who are aware of it. At least my eyes had been on her instead of Armsmaster.

"You did have an intent look about you, but other than that no, not that I've spotted yet," she says with a smile. "But I read the summary of your powers, I’ve worked with Thinkers before, and there are certain common traits most share. So, do you mind if I ask what's on your mind?"

"Nothing," I lie, shaking my head. I hesitate then and add for Armsmaster's benefit, "Nothing important for today’s testing. Habit. Promise I'll keep my curiosity under control while we're taking it apart and putting it back together again."

"If anything does come up, you can stop us at any time to ask questions or if you feel uncomfortable or need a break. We are not under any kind of time pressure, and your health and comfort are the priority here," she says.

I can't help myself and immediately break my promise, asking my power whether she actually means a word she’s saying. To my surprise, the answer is yes. There's not even a caveat about whatever ulterior motive she has lurking in the wings. Until I’d gotten powers I hadn’t known just how rare that kind of person actually was. Even Victoria had the ulterior motive of wanting to be liked and admired.

Most people were more like her sister, absolutely full of ulterior motives. I still have no fucking clue what I'm going to do about those two. If there's one upside to today’s tests, it's getting them off my mind.

Steph spends a few minutes walking me through what I should expect in the next hour, then there's an extra waiver and informed consent form to be signed. They were the kind of forms where not signing wasn’t really an option unless I wanted to waste my own time, so I give them my rubber stamp. Anything to get it all over with. All in all, it's still a lot quicker than some of the paperwork I've had to wrangle with in the recent past. When everything's all signed and filed she fishes a tape recorder out of her big plastic case and hits a button.

"This is Dr. Stephanie Marin along with Armsmaster on June 11th, 2010, 1:14 p.m., beginning recording of the power testing session BB-10-144 working with Ward ID number 11437, provisional cape name Vixen." She places the recorder to one side, before going on, "I am going to start by asking a couple questions. Our first goal is to build a description of how your power feels while you're using it."

"Okay, I do have a question," I say, half raising my hand. "Why?"

"What we're looking for in particular is information about how your power presents itself, or at least how you interpret it. This is especially important for what you might call intellectual powers. They're the ones that pose more of a challenge to evaluate than just measuring how strong your lasers are, or how much you can bench. Although at the same time, that challenge means that they force us to be more creative in testing and explaining them. The majority of what we know comes from studying those kinds of powers."

Is that her angle then: looking to build up a universal theory of powers and seeing a golden opportunity dropped in her lap? It fits, although this time I restrain my instinct to go digging for confirmation. As annoying as it is, it’s also as benign as I could hope for.

"As for what’s relevant to you, personally, how your power presents to you will shape how you use it. Starting here tells us what we should be testing for and may give us hints about limitations you think exist but actually don’t." I must’ve given her a dirty look, because she pauses for a moment and gives me a half-apologetic smile. "By which I mean, sorry, that I haven't met a parahuman yet who hasn't sooner or later discovered something unexpected about their powers."

She pauses for a moment, staring up at the ceiling as this time she works out exactly what she wants to say in advance.

"There is a tendency amongst the terminally physics-brained of my colleagues, and honestly within our culture generally, to privilege the objective measures of powers over the subjective ones as though they were in some way more real. But that is, frankly, stupid. We’ve never once studied a power divorced from human experience. We don’t study powers, but someone's power. Ignoring how it feels to that person and the reality of their lived experience would be like… trying to understand why people create music purely through economics, without ever once mentioning art."

"All right," I say, once she pauses for breath. She’s a lot more thorough than I expected. Whatever. Victoria would love this, but I can at least find a way to tolerate it. If she's hoping to use me to understand powers in general, I can at least get something out in return while I try to slow her down. I glance between Steph and Armsmaster, who misinterprets the reason for my hesitation.

"Do you have any other questions?” Armsmaster asks.

“Why didn’t you play football or something in college? You’ve got the build for it, just not the kinda guy who likes team sports or—”

“Do you have any reasonable questions about subjects that fall within Dr. Marin’s purview?” He provokes an objection from Steph over the misuse of her name but he just sighs.

Bothering him a bit and the satisfaction of guessing right about a bit of his character buys me some time. It doesn't solve my concerns about being picked apart and having information about me made public, though, and he’s still put me on the spot.

He’s also presented me with an opportunity. A question has lurked in the back of my head all week. Now I can ask it without having to broach the subject myself.

"You mentioned powers changing, or finding out new things about them,” I say, slowly, trying to figure out how to word the question without giving away why I was asking it. “Are there reasons for a power to act differently besides, uh, practice and self-discovery or whatever?"

"Oh, sure, I can think of one or two—I mean, three or four, or…" she trails off, then sighs. "There’s at least four, off the top of my head. Trump powers, varying Sechen ranges, second triggers, and an effectively endless number of bespoke power interactions. The Thinker-Thinker interactions are some of the most obvious—the classic example is two precogs standing next to each other interfering with each other's ability to forecast, but it’s actually far more common than you’d think! Depending on the fine details of how your Thinker power works, it may have a fascinating interaction with Vista's Shaker power. Is there anything specific you had in mind?"

Of course there is: why my power started fucking with me as soon as I entered Brockton Bay and why it’s started behaving again since then. I shake my head, making a mental list of things to look into later.

"Nothing that's relevant to what we're doing right now. It seems like the kind of thing I should be looking out for. You may start the inquisition."

Steph hums, tapping one vividly-tipped nail thoughtfully on the table. After some consideration she asks, "How do you distinguish between your own knowledge and what your power gives you? Is there a distinct and identifiable delineation between the two, and if so how is it different from gut feeling or intuition?"

"Yeah, kind of?” I say, a bit taken aback. After her time up on her soapbox I'm not expecting any tests as simple as her handing me a rock and saying, ‘now tell me about this rock,’ but it didn't prepare me for actually getting here. "It's like… I'll have a thought about whatever it is I'm focused on, but it's in the power tone instead of the Vixen tone."

As I speak she’s tapping away at her laptop keyboard with her ridiculous nails without even looking down to make sure she’s hitting the right keys. Her eyes are locked on me.

"Are these thoughts linguistic? That is, do you learn things in the form of words and sentences, or at least things that you could express that way? Contrast that with images, feelings, or other non-linguistic information—describing a picture, versus describing something you read in a book."

"It's more like remembering things I'd forgotten than someone whispering in my ear, but yeah, it’s mostly words," I say.

Almost always, anyhow. Now and then things clarified differently, or broke down differently, when life got harder. Like when I was getting stalked by ordinary-people-slash-mercenaries, or…

Or when I was trying to find out why Reggie did it.

I stare down at my shoelaces instead of explaining further. I'm not explaining that on the record.

Steph has carried on speaking, I realise belatedly. "...and you've described your power before as making inferences from incomplete information. How do these inferences occur to you? Is it fair to say that information is presented to you in chains, algorithmically, until you find what you're looking for?"

I pause for a long moment, thinking about how to answer that. This is getting on to the dangerous parts. I don't like the thought of having records detailing step by step how my power works, but dodging the lie detector will be a trick. I decide to take a gamble on how I think his lie detector works, and leave the literal behind in favor of simile and metaphor.

"Kind of? Have you ever played sudoku?" I finally ask. "I look at a problem all at once, the whole sheet of paper, and my power fills in spaces and makes connections on its own until I have the solution."

That gets Steph to stop typing for a moment as I can practically see the cogs turning in her head. She fetches a piece of paper and a pen and draws a square, writing a single nine in one corner.

"This might be taking the metaphor too literally, but say that this is the first number to a specific puzzle and that I have the intended solution on a separate paper. Would you be able to fill in anything more, despite the existence of multiple solutions as it stands?"

“Probably, yeah.”

She pauses for a moment then adds, "How tenuous can the clues be before your power starts having trouble, is perhaps a better way of asking that."

Strangely, staring at the nine in a box actually helps for some reason as I think it through.

"My power can skip steps, but that runs the risk of it trying to fill out the wrong puzzle. If there were dozens of possibilities for a correct answer, I wouldn’t brute force different ones to find the one that works. I’d cheat. If you knew the answer, I’d use my power on you. Since this is a hypothetical I can’t really start filling out squares."

"I wouldn't expect you to," she agrees amiably. “Of course, there’s another possibility besides having too little information, or too many possible solutions.”

She draws a nine at the other three corners of the grid, creating an unsolvable puzzle.

“What does my power tell me when there aren’t any answers?” I ask, past the lump in my throat.

The truth is that it tells me how to fight, how to run, how to lie and cheat and steal until I can figure out a way to come out on top anyway, how to beat the impossible problems of grieving a dead brother and parents who never loved us.

But I don’t tell the doctor, or Armsmaster, or the faceless people who’ll one day be reading my files any of that. Instead I smile for the metaphorical cameras and say, “Well, it tells me that I’m fucked, Steph.”

If that sets off the big guy’s lie-dar, he doesn’t call me out on it. Steph just smiles at me indulgently, like a talk show host, and continues her questioning.

"Do you guide this process, trying to narrow down what you're looking for?"

"Yeah, it always starts with the questions I want answered and works from there. Sometimes I restart it with a different prompt," I say, trying to guess at and preempt her next question. "I don't know how to describe that. It's instinct to me, as much as breathing is. I guess it’s like… It's like if you're trying to decide what shade of colour something is, and you change the angle or lighting or get closer to get a better look."

"See, this is why I say it's useful to start by figuring out how it feels to you. Now we know to start: building a shared vocabulary so that you can understand and explain your power better, and you just gave me an idea," she says, doing her thinky fingernail tap again. She obviously noticed that I was fumbling for the right way to explain myself and had failed. "We have a detour to make, but I need a minute to get something ready. I'll be back in ten. Behave, you two."

She closes up her laptop and retreats from the room, leaving me alone with Armsmaster. Great, time for more lecturing about the 'gravity of my situation,' as if I didn’t feel that gravity every time I left this building.

"She always like that?" I ask and Armsmaster stirs.

"Always," he says with a sigh. “I appreciate her rigour, but the endless conversation…”

He sighs again, which strikes me as a bit much despite having just set him up for it. At least Steph seems to be going somewhere with her questions.

I clear my throat. "So… how ‘bout those Red Sox, huh?"

Armsmaster ignores my definitely-good-faith attempt to make conversation, as is becoming the norm.

"During your initial interview with Director Piggot, you demonstrated your power by connecting Assault with his former alias of Madcap,” he says. “Can you recall the precise steps that you and your power followed to reach this conclusion?"

Aha. So that’s what got him to show up in person. I guess that kinda thing would make one’s hair stand on end if they had an identity to hide.

I toy for a moment with the idea of trying to learn to lie to him, and decide it’s not worth the effort. I would be alone for ten minutes, and this seems like a time to pick my battles.

"They have similar powers, the timing works out, and he had said some things earlier that put together an enemies-to-lovers arc between him and Battery. I remember following the Madcap saga when it was playing out on the news and the climax was really underwhelming. I saw some of the fight between him and Challenger on the news. His fighting style changed, but his powers haven’t. Some things I already knew, but he provided the rest."

"Have you ever connected a parahuman's alias and their civilian persona?"

I shake my head. "Never. Seems like a stupid idea."

Although… maybe I've never had the motive or the opportunity. I have the means to, which opens up some somewhat frightening possibilities.

He has follow up questions for me, trying to pick apart the details of how it went down with Madcap. He's decidedly less meticulous than Steph is, though, and I think I manage to avoid giving anything new away as we lapse into silence for a good two or three minutes. Then she comes bustling back in with her laptop and a new stack of papers.

"Sorry about the wait," she says to me. Armsmaster is playing innocent, typing up notes or multitasking to paperwork or some Tinker project of his he’d brought along. Then Steph places a sheet of paper on the table in front of me. I look down at it to see one giant mess of incomprehensible text.

"This is a message that I wrote and encrypted while I was gone. What I want you to do is look it over, then tell me what the message says and how I encrypted it, if possible, or as much as you can manage."

I look down at it and stare.

 slsay wtmos aeeao serhn bdlrt hoyeo ulaet hdcro sdsmn…

I glance up at Steph.

Relaxed, expectant. Does not expect to be a vulnerability. Asked a colleague to write and encode the message. Does not know the cipher or text used.

"You did not write this," I huff with a bit more affront than I actually feel, which gets an amused smile out of her.

"I did not, which is a good first bit of information to have worked out. You must be great at guessing passwords, which is honestly more useful than cryptanalysis. This—" She gestures at the page. "—is a test for a very specific thing. If you were trying to actually break past security you'd be giving someone a call as Jessica Hackerman, County Password Inspector."

"Right, right," I grumble as I go back to the page without the advantage of being able to wring the answer out of her. She's right that I'm much better at passwords and PIN numbers; I've had months of practice cracking those, after all. This is entirely novel.

I poke at the coded message with my power a few times, looking for loose threads to start unravelling. The first step is eliminating the impossible. It's not a string of letters flipped A to Z and visa versa, or words all shifted by a letter; those don’t print out anything legible when I try them. Next I start looking for patterns within the ‘word’ itself. The fact that the letter E is the most common jumps out at me immediately once I start to look. That finally gives me something to latch onto, and I stop trying to figure out how the letters have been swapped in and out, instead looking at how they've been rearranged.

Then I’ve got it.

"It was… written in zig-zags?" I say, sounding less confident than I should because I'm right but don’t have the words to describe what I’m saying. “The letters were rearranged in a pattern."

I fish out my trophy pen and draw over one of the blank sheets of paper so I can unscramble it without overtaxing my power. It only takes a minute to have the second part of the answer.

"It reads, slowly desperately slowly?"

Steph leans over to look at my work and hits her stopwatch. "It's a rail fence cipher. It's one of the simpler transposition ciphers and it does indeed look like a zig-zag when written out. Now, tell me about your process."

It takes a few more minutes of showing my work before she's satisfied and says, "Now we are going to give you a primer on codebreaking."

She passes me another set of papers which contain a summary of the lecture she begins to give. The next ten minutes are a blur of math and jargon: simple and polyalphabetic substitution ciphers, transposition, frequency analysis, Kasiski's method... until finally I get another page dropped in front of me.

"Second verse, same as the first," Steph says. I check to be sure, but she hasn't encoded this one either.

I stare down at the string of nonsense.

 aptqk hqzor gtzxk srwsl momyg kaxzi vjlvq wbmih fqwii...

My eyes unfocus for a moment before I blink, get a hold of myself again and look back at my cheat sheet. The point she’s making is obvious—I can acquire new skills through the lecture, to give my power an edge—so there's something relevant in my notes.

No single letter substitution; lacking repeated fragments for Kasiski analysis. Letter A most common, X least common: autokey cipher.

I glance back at the notes, reminding myself how to attack an autokey. I have a few options. I don't feel like starting a dictionary attack on it, even with my power to help, so instead I start fishing for primer fragments. Readying my pen for a second time I start making guesses at the keystream: and, the, but, etc. In moments my power grabs hold of a three letter sequence that reads ram.

Primer likely English word; seven character offset. Short key chosen for demonstration purposes. Key seven characters long, ending in -ram. Diagram, program, lockram, anagram, epigram—

"The key's epigram," I say. "The message starts, 'walk the dog.'"

Steph bursts into actual applause before hitting the stopwatch and tapping away at her laptop again. "It looks to me like you were walking through an actual cryptanalytic method with your power?"

I nod, stashing away my pen. "I figured that was the point. I just needed something for my power to grab on to."

"Perfect. Okay, we just learned a lot together, but before we get into that I want to give you the motivation for this. What we were primarily testing for is any sign of what’s colloquially called power rot. It can happen to any cape, regardless of power, although it’s most easily noticed in more intellectual and social ones. For example, are you familiar with Heartbreaker? Parahuman emotional manipulator, serial rapist and murderer?"

"Yeah, I've heard of him. Who hasn’t?" He's one of the reasons I didn't head to Canada in the first place, despite Montreal being closer to home than Brockton Bay.

“Good,” Steph says, “but let me tell you some things about him that most people don’t generally know. Heartbreaker is, by all accounts, a deeply socially inept and maladapted man. Maybe he was charming at one point in his life, but the ability to directly manipulate the emotions and motivations of those around him changed him. Any social skills he might have had have atrophied, in favour of the brute force of his power. If he can't use his power directly to do something, he uses it to order someone else to do it for him.”

“I’m following,” I say, because she’s looking at me like she’s waiting for me to say something. She’d really rather keep talking, though; I can tell that ‘letting others get a word in edgewise’ is one of those social mores she’s learned by rote.

"Obviously that's bad enough on its own,” she continues, “Being a functional human being requires socialisation; being alone is unhealthy for all kinds of reasons, although I doubt he realises that. What’s relevant today is that this ultimately sabotages his own power. People are hard, so his power makes them simple. He gets used to that simplicity and becomes more likely to use his power to reproduce it. Rinse, repeat. He used to be almost surgical in his high-profile kidnappings, only using his power when necessary. Now there’s a headline every few weeks about him using his power in road rage incidents and causing accidents. He comes across a problem that requires a scalpel, but his solution uses his power like a chainsaw, because it’s all he knows anymore.”

“Okay, if he’s as much of a loser as you’re saying he is, why hasn’t the Guild taken care of him by now?” I ask.

“Collateral damage," Armsmaster says without a moment's hesitation, which is a little odd.

“What?”

“In addition to the usual risks that accompany any engagement with powerful Masters,” he says, “the chances of harming his children are too high for them to engage. They fight for him and most are powered. Some are as young as six years old.”

Damn. And I thought my dad was a piece of shit.

"On top of that there's also the issue that even without subtlety his power is incredibly dangerous in a direct conflict and—" Steph stops and sighs. "And we are straying off-topic. Returning to the subject at hand, imagine if your power were a little creature on your shoulder, whispering the answer to any question you asked. How likely would you be to actually go and study for an exam instead of asking it for the answers when you got to the test?"

The example’s probably coincidental, chosen as something that would resonate with a high school student, but it still is incredibly on the nose. I shrug. "It feels like there are a lot of things I could be doing with my time that are way more worthwhile than learning about cross products."

"In a very narrow sense you may be correct. Only a few people will need to know how to work out a cross product in their adult life, but at your level the point is not actually the material you're learning, it's about learning how to learn. That's what I'm getting at here. People are, like Heartbreaker, oftentimes lazy and hedonistic if given the choice, and a power that does the work for you lets you be lazy. It’s so tragically easy to become a Thinker who doesn’t actually think. It's very common amongst parahumans in general, and easiest to notice with powers like Heartbreaker's. Look up 'Velocity groin accident' for a physical example of what I mean."

I raise an eyebrow at her and say, “Pretty sure I don’t want to see whatever that’ll show me.”

“It's not nearly as spicy as whatever you're thinking. Reliance on his power in most regular circumstances led to bad form led to an embarrassing injury when he actually did push himself to the limit. Anyway, for you I have good news and bad news. The first cipher wasn’t exactly secure, and I probably could have cracked it by hand almost as fast as you did. The second one was much harder and took you less time to break it than the first.

"So the bad news is that if what we're seeing is indicative of a pattern—keep in mind, we won’t know if that’s true without more testing—then you are incredibly vulnerable to power rot. Heartbreaker may have his social skills atrophy, but he's only lost the fine control and can brute force his way through most problems. You, by contrast, may see your powers become progressively less useful as you rely more and more exclusively on them. The good news is that for the same reason your power, which is already looking substantial and extremely versatile, has the potential to grow into something incredible. If you are willing to put in the work to support it."

I don’t think she gets just how motivated I am. Whatever almost happened to me last week can never happen again. That’s another thing that I’m not going to put into the transcript, though, so I wrinkle my nose and give her a sour look.

"That sounds like you're just trying to invent excuses for why I should try hard at school."

“Well, you’d know better than me, I suppose,” she says, smiling a bit wider. “Next test: am I inventing such an excuse, or am I being genuine?”

“Genuine,” I tell her, through gritted teeth.

"Right! Look at this way, I’m pointing out that the route to godlike insights and unlimited personal power doesn’t run through Complacencyville." She pauses, tapping a nail on the table. "But this is also a great example of why it’s important to understand how parahumans experience their own powers, even if I were to focus purely on the practical side of things. The sudoku example was fantastic, and the experiment it led to gave us some important insights."

I'm a little annoyed that my deliberately evasive metaphor turned out to be clarifying. At the same time, I’m also a little pleased. Weird.

What I’m not pleased about is the fact that Armsmaster has stopped pretending to be busy with something else. He hasn’t been typing for minutes, ever since Steph gave me her little round of applause. He’s been thinking about me, and my power, and how he can use it to further his own career. It's not hard to imagine what he might be thinking up: better lie detectors modelled off how I read people, getting me to unmask villains, no doubt with him getting the lion’s share of the credit.

This is never going to end.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m listening now. What do we look at next?"

"We go back to the actual plan for today,” she says, pulling out a smaller and more beat-up laptop before handing it to me. “Let’s test how your power analyses people and situations through the lens of different forms of media. We're looking for what inputs work best with your power, and how important communication richness is—sorry, that’s more jargon, but we'll get there. I’ll start by describing people and situations I’ve recorded a number of different ways. The files are all saved to that device there. Then you’ll look at transcripts and summaries of the subject, then audio recordings, and finally, full video and audio recordings. How each input type changes your power’s outputs will tell us a lot. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," I say with a sigh. Having actually seen this woman work now, I'm honestly not sure how successful I'd be at pulling the wool over her eyes even if Armsmaster hadn't shown up with his lie detector. The best I can imagine doing is just pretending I'm coming up with a lot less than I really am, as I'm getting the feeling she's really good at working out inconsistencies.

It’s probably a shame that I can’t fully appreciate what's going on as Steph teases out little nuances in what I'm doing as I work through her list of files. I’ll be lucky to remember what I was doing here at all, by the end of this. I can feel a nauseating aura steadily seep through my brain.

I must have said something particularly snappish—I don't know, I'm not the intern your husband left you for—because she fixes me with a searching look.

"You're developing a migraine," she says, then sighs. Her voice is a lot softer as she goes on, "I told you to ask for a break when you needed one—don't give me that look, I said that in order to protect you, not me. I am a physician and you are under my care, and that matters to me. More to the point, we’ve done enough for today already, and I have ideas for follow ups for us to work through at whatever pace you’re comfortable with. I don't want you to associate these sessions with pain and start avoiding me at all costs."

I make a displeased noise. I guess. If she wants to be all logical about it.

"Mhm, that's right. Now, are you experiencing light sensitivities?" She runs me through a series of questions, irritating me further, before fetching a prescription pad and scribbling on it. "Many migraines induced by overuse of Thinker powers are similar enough to the mundane variety that they're amenable to similar treatment. Don't take relief as a cure or as permission to continue using your power. The migraine is only a symptom of power overuse, just as pain is a symptom of a broken leg, and in both cases the consequences of continuing to push yourself too hard are more severe and more dangerous."

I make another displeased noise. At least this does all but confirm my earlier suspicion about her angle on all this, if she's already planning out how she's going to be using her new favourite guinea pig. I don’t need to ‘overuse’ my power to tell she’s buttering me up. For the most part, anyhow. I keep thinking back to that moment of absurd applause but whatever is bothering me about it isn't clicking right now.

She passes the scrip. "Rizatriptan. Do you need help finding or getting to the pharmacy?"

I shake my head. I passed it on the way here and I haven't been reduced to a complete invalid yet.

"All right. Get yourself somewhere dark and make sure to drink." She concludes the recording she's been making, packs her things back into the case she hauled in with her, and bids me adieu with a final admonition to take care of myself.

Leaving me alone with Armsmaster. Good. My head is killing me, but I have something to say to him before he goes.

“Push that door shut, big guy.”

He obliges me, pushing it closed gently on oiled hinges until it latches shut with a click.

“You’re not going to use me as easily as you use the rest of your team,” I tell him.

“I wasn’t planning to, Vixen,” he lies. He even thinks he believes it. Then he adds, “You’ll learn the benefits of cooperation in time. I do well when the team does well, and the team’s successes are mine in turn. You’re a part of that team now. We’ll help each other.”

“I know what I signed up for. I’ll do what I agreed to do. But I’ll do it on my terms.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll follow orders, just as I do,” Armsmaster says, which is rich coming from the local Protectorate chief. “And you’re smart enough to see which side you should be on: mine, as I track down the people who tried to kidnap you.”

With that, he leaves. The thing is, I already know whose side I’m on. I’m on my own side.

It gets pretty lonely being the only one who is.

Notes:

I remember even ten years ago people complained about how bad power testing was in fanfic, even though I cannot think of ever running into one that was more than "and then we did power testing" summaries. My guess is that there were a few very bad ones and it scared people off. So anyhow, I took that as a challenge and wanted to try my hand at one. Lisa has a power that lends herself to doing more than just trying out things and reading off numbers, and there's some character and plot stuff in there to spice it up too.

Also, we have our last (planned) OC. She'll only be showing up now and then, but I badly needed an actual power researcher that wasn't just Armsmaster or someone else wearing a second hat, and I admit I really enjoy writing her. She's a funny duck compared to most of the PRT/YG staff.

As always, etherealDesign was a delight. Smoothed this out, and helped enormously in setting up some of the thematic contrasts we'll be seeing between the Lisa of now and the Lisa in half a year when she's settled in and had some character growth.

(One nice thing about teens is they can grow up and change fast.)

Chapter 7: Interlude 1: Piggot

Piggot had a meeting with a ghost scheduled for this afternoon, and she couldn’t even prepare for it. Her job always came first, but there were days she'd rather it didn't.

She tried to push it from her mind. Forget the monsters, she told herself. Forget her panicked escape, forget her injury, forget the delirium that followed after and the crimes that man admitted to.

For now, she had to do her job.

"The last order of business is our new Ward," Piggot said. If she wrapped up fast, maybe she could have a moment to breathe. She pushed herself into a new position in her chair, relieving some of the built up pressure on her back. The pain tingling up along her spine eased enough for her to resettle. "We were on track for an early July debut. What's still outstanding that could prevent that?"

Armsmaster stirred from where he was sitting across from her, tapping a blue-gloved finger against his visor. "At the current pace she will have completed her basic orientation course by then. It will be a month more until she's cleared for field work, but public relations appearances don't require advanced self-defence or procedural certification."

"Costuming is pending approval, but Green has assured me that they're down to ironing out details," Renick said. Her deputy sat slightly apart from the rest, at the far end of a mostly empty conference table, reports spread out in front of him. Cruz, the office manager, and Commander Davis from Operations were seated midway along the table from him. Dr. Marin, Challenger, and Assault clustered closer to Piggot. From here they could see the city skyline spread out around them and the late afternoon sun shining across the water of the bay.

"Ironing out details as in adjusting the fit, or are they still haggling over something important?" she asked. She was not really all that invested in the subject of cape names and brands in the abstract, but the particular way Wilbourn had approached it rankled. The girl had treated it as another way to be a pest, deliberately trying to pick something she could just barely get away with.

"The former, is my understanding. There is also the remaining issue of her guardianship," her deputy went on. He was a terribly boring man in many ways, a dry and methodical veteran of the bureaucratic side of the organisation. He and Piggot had nothing in common but—perhaps as a result—he made her life infinitely easier. "She's still a ward of the court for the time being, but the order is only valid for 90 days."

Piggot had almost hoped that the request for full emancipation would go through, just to avoid the ensuing headache. In the end she would’ve had to throw her weight around with the judge, and there simply hadn't been enough upside to make the required politicking worthwhile. Matching Wilbourn to a guardian was going to be such a pain in the neck she’d almost considered it regardless.

"There is her extended family to contact," Piggot said, shuffling through her notes as she searched for the relevant documentation.

"Family that would have to be willing to relocate for her,” Challenger noted, “per the terms of her Wards contract."

"We don't have anyone in the foster care system currently designated for parahuman minors," Cruz said. "There have been active Wards living with people unaware of their activities, but it's not an ideal situation."

"No it would not be," Piggot said with a sigh. Wilbourn living with an unaware foster family was something she did not want to contemplate. "We do have some time yet. We could coordinate with CPS to vet someone they work with."

"She's at least fourteen, isn't she?" asked Challenger. She reclined in her chair until it tipped precipitously back on two legs. She adjusted her eyepatch as she looked around the room, continuing, "She has the right to nominate her own guardian."

The entire table sat in silence for a moment. Piggot watched Challenger dust off the shoulders of the red leather jacket she wore over her bodysuit, thinking over this new option.

"We'll put the onus on her for now then, and if she can't decide, then at least she can't complain when we have to figure out something else," Piggot said. Of course, Wilbourn could and no doubt would complain endlessly, but she'd have a harder time making anyone listen. "Are there any other remaining obstacles?"

A murmur went around the table as no other objections were raised.

"In that case I want to start seeing proposals for the debut, ideally with enough time to run any plans by Chambers before we commit to anything."

"There's the Vice-Versa event coming up," Cruz said. "The debut will have to be scheduled around that."

"Refresh my memory."

"It's a promotional dinner and photoshoot that the city school system is organising. The Wards dress up in formal wear, and students in attendance dress up as capes. If she's to attend we need her debut moved up." There was a note of reproach to her tone. No doubt this had come up before and she hadn't cared enough to keep it in mind.

"I don't know, she'd probably think it was hilarious to have her debut out of costume," Assault said.

Renick frowned. "I don't think we should be hijacking a school event and repurposing it as part of a marketing campaign for a new Ward."

Piggot barely avoided rolling her eyes. She was privately amused when the statement got a soft but decidedly audible snort out of Dr. Marin.

"Like this isn't already a marketing stunt for the Wards," said Assault, giving voice to what the rest of the room was thinking. "It'd spice up the party, give people something to get excited for."

"Then figure out a proposal and get it on my desk," Piggot said, cutting in before the bickering could escalate. "Or find something for her to do so we can start putting her to work. Speaking of which: Dr. Marin, you have the report of her power analysis complete?"

"I do indeed. A draft, at the very least. I'm afraid it's very light on spectacle, if you were hoping for something to tie in to the debut. Still, I think we have something special here. Would you like a verbal summary?"

"In thirty seconds or less, if you please."

Marin arched an eyebrow, smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Strong deductive Thinker power with an unexpected twist. The Sherlock Holmes metaphor is honestly downplaying it. Don't be surprised if you're getting a knock on your door sometime soon from Watchdog; she'd be a killer internal affairs agent."

Piggot’s stomach turned. That knock on the door had already come, not that she’d shared that with Marin or anyone else at the table.

"That is about what we expected. Have you discovered any limitations or countermeasures that can be exploited?" Piggot asked. “I’m more interested in what she can’t do rather than what she can.”

"So, that is a fascinating question and there is no simple answer for you quite yet," Marin said, looking entirely too enthusiastic. Piggot started a mental stopwatch for her. "There is some level of mitigation that you can do; the less she's given to work with, the harder of a time she'll have. The problem you'll run into here has to do with her creativity. You can try to choke her off from the information she needs, but how do you figure out what needs to be hidden when the attacker can unpredictably skip steps in their deductions? What do you need to do to make a secure password when they can sometimes stare at your desk and guess it based on how you sort your pens?"

Piggot frowned. This was sounding more and more like a worst case scenario for operational security. "And you're saying that there are no reliable limitations to how she might apply her power?"

"It is more accurate to say that we do not know where any underlying limitations are yet," Armsmaster said. He had surprised Piggot, when they started working together, at being a fairly helpful presence during these meetings. Given how impolitick he could be, she hadn’t expected him to be even decent as a leader, but he had a firm hand if nothing else. At a minimum he was always focused during these meetings. When the subject of Wilbourn had been raised, he’d become almost rapt. "Those places where she has run into obstacles in testing could have been circumvented with more preparation on her part."

"For present purposes that's correct," Marin agreed. "I am pretty certain about some of the hard boundaries we'll be running into, but those are fairly esoteric—aspects of the nature of powers themselves and the like. You’re worried about security breaches, though, and that’s where I have good news and bad news. The options are limited. I suggest focusing less on stopping her and more on slowing her down, distracting her, and most importantly, giving her the support she needs to feel fulfilled as a Ward.”

“I don’t know, it sounds like she’s as dangerous to us as she is to the villains,” Challenger said. “That’s exciting!”

Marin nodded. “Deliberately hiding things from her is as likely to give her clues by omission as slow her down. Limiting her access to information is more reliable, but that requires keeping her from the means to access that information. The most effective way of delaying her pericognition, outside of simply avoiding her is likely providing accurate, relevant, but misleading information; this requires knowledge of her motivations and goals combined with correct predictions of what incorrect deductions will send her on a snipe hunt."

“The silver lining is that she’s on our side,” Armsmaster said. “We’ll need to adapt, but if the PRT has to worry about this bomb in our midst, it’ll be twice as bad for the Empire. We can respond to the threat faster than them.”

"To that point,” Piggot interrupted. “Marin, do you have a numerical estimate yet?"

Marin took in a deep breath before releasing it in an excessively dramatic sigh. "Thinker 7 or 8, probably 8, with the caveat that she isn’t an ‘evacuate civilians’ type of threat, although you wouldn't know that from the rating definitions. It’s so obviously designed for Brutes and trying to compare a Brute 10 and a Thinker 10 on the same axis seems absurd—”

“It’s designed to give field agents a shorthand to use during kinetic situations—”

“Davis, no cross-talk. I’ve given the good doctor the floor,” Piggot interrupted, glaring at the grizzled veteran until he was properly cowed. “Marin, get to the point.”

“So, purely based on the advisability of avoiding engagement without preparation given the opsec hazard she poses, I wouldn’t go below a seven. That might be revised downwards if we discover reliable ways of constraining her power, but don’t hold your breath. With experience and the acquired expertise and accumulated knowledge that comes with training, we’re as likely to revise that upwards a notch or two."

"Upwards? You're suggesting that she might end up rated as a Thinker 10?" Renick asked, leaning forward in his seat and fixing the doctor with an intense look.

She shrugged. "Honestly, at 10 and beyond the scale breaks down into vibes and feelings anyways. A 9 is inarguably plausible and she shows a clear path for improvement. We've already built up vocabulary for three distinct approaches to picking things apart with her power, and any non-power related training she receives is doubly effective, as her power is a force multiplier for her."

Marin paused for a moment, a grin creeping across her face before she added, "So, do you want to know about her second rating?"

That got a stir out of most of the table. Piggot kept a straight face, despite the feeling of vertigo she felt whenever she missed anything important. She pressed her lips into a thin line and looked at Marin, hoping that would prompt her to explain herself.

"Yeah, that just goes to show how many people read my briefs." She withdrew a printed copy of her report, held it up, and with one colourful nail emphasised a small section almost in the footnotes of the page. "Her secondary Stranger classification."

Piggot had been looking for a distraction, and now she had one in the form of another new headache.

"Did you find she has a second manifestation of her power?" Davis asked, leaning in over the conference table to stare at Marin. The rest of the table was just as attentive. Only Armsmaster didn’t look surprised.

"Not in the way you're probably thinking,” Marin said. “The power classification system is a mess, a relic of the 1980s that is trying to do three different things at once. It’s frankly made worse in many respects by the addition of the power rankings. They verge on being zodiac signs for interminable PHO versus debates and schoolyard arguments, even ignoring the wrench the Tinker classification throws into the whole system."

Piggot pinched the bridge of her nose. "Doctor."

"No no, I promise this is actually relevant. Look, the system is deeply flawed and inconsistent, and the only way that it arguably has utility, as Davis pointed out, is in preparing field agents for what to expect. It doesn't matter how the power operates, merely the level of caution required. Even a Tinker classification kind of holds to that, announcing imminent wacky science gizmos, although they have to come with half a dozen sub-ratings. Her Stranger rating isn't a new manifestation of her power, but how she uses it. With some training and practise Vixen is likely going to be able to waltz right into a secure facility without so much as tripping an alarm, to say nothing of the terror she's going to be for electronic intrusion. She's not just Sherlock Holmes; she's got the potential to be James Bond as well."

“You mean that British sex criminal?”

“Challenger, he’s not real,” Armsmaster said.

Marin tapped her nail on the table for a moment, scanning the room around her. "And I will remind everyone that she evaded multiple attempted kidnappings made by a group of professional soldiers with parahuman support. She's got a Stranger rating. You might not want to publicise it, but it's there. At least a 5, maybe a 6. All of the numbers are provisional. And yes, they come with caveats about how situational they may be, but what else can you do with a scalar."

“I’m not sure I see it,” Davis said.

“How secure are your radio communications, really?” Marin asked. “I guess I wouldn’t know, I’m just trying to pick apart the fundamental workings of reality, I wouldn’t know a thing about opsec. But she can break into any ‘secure’ communication as easily as she breathes. You won’t know there’s a breach. What couldn’t she do, with that level of access? Counterfeit orders, fabricate reports… don’t you think that might be a problem for you?"

Davis only cursed in response.

Thinker 9, Stranger 6, as an expression of the same power. Piggot didn’t put much stock into the numbers either, but these still raised an eyebrow. She could think of four parahumans with a 9 or higher in Brockton Bay off the cuff. Two of them could lock a person in an oubliette from which there was no escape, one was an unstoppable monster from a horror movie, and the last had gotten into a fist fight with Leviathan and won. It wasn’t the kind of rating you saw every day.

Were Wilbourn's powers of deduction similarly dangerous?

Maybe not to someone's health, but in the context of risk assessment there was something there. As the doctor suggested, they might never be evacuating civilians because of her power, but if Wilbourn were to go rogue she would pose a danger to their operational security like few others. The memory of the girl working out private details of her own life history within a few minutes of meeting her was still sharp and clear in her mind.

She sighed and glanced up at the clock. What an inconvenient power. Even without the secondary application as a Stranger power, it was far too dangerous for the PRT to sit on it. It wasn’t flashy and she’d only be marketable if she developed a reputation as a competent, powerful hero, and it was far too soon to say whether she was capable. Worst of all, her power was uniquely ill-suited to building trust in the people around her, and for good reason. The abuse and injustice capes could perpetrate merely by being stronger and faster than other humans was bad enough. Wilbourn could violate their rights to privacy merely by looking at them.

"I'm certain we’ll have much more to discuss at a later date. For now, we’re running out of time. After one final update we’ll adjourn."

Armsmaster cleared his throat at her prompting. "We have a likely culprit in the ongoing investigation of the kidnapping attempt. We've discounted any out-of-town involvement as well as most of the local parahuman groups. None of our kidnappers-in-custody have been cooperative thus far, but the operation fits Coil's modus operandi so much as we understand it. The other possible culprit, E88, has a history of trying to ‘aggressively recruit’ parahuman muscle. The mismatch is in the method: the Empire would either use coercion through family ties or gangsters led by a powered lieutenant. Only Coil goes out of his way to employ highly-trained unpowered mercenaries of a high enough caliber to find a Thinker—or Stranger—who doesn’t want to be found. There have been signs he’s starting to make a play for control of Downtown, and this would fit with what little we know of his current plans.”

“Very good,” Piggot said. “Renick, I’d like you to draft plans for a retaliatory strike on Coil's operation. Have it on my desk by end-of-day tomorrow. A turf war downtown does no one any good. That brings this meeting to a close. We’ve already run over time, so I’ll skip the usual end matter. You’re all dismissed.”

There was a burst of activity as everyone gathered up their things and filed out of the room. She was just about to get up herself as Assault motioned her to stay behind a moment longer in private. She decided to oblige him, in no real hurry to return to her office.

He tried to wait until everyone else had left the room to speak, but Armsmaster caught wind of their conversation, and for whatever reason decided to linger at the door. Assault watched him for a moment before apparently deciding this was fine, then turned back to Piggot and asked, "You're going to be telling Vixen about the identity of her kidnapper, right?"

"That’s not a priority. She isn't involved with the investigation. That may or may not change as she comes into active service. Whether or not she’s reliable remains to be seen. What's your concern?"

"You're asking for complete openness and honesty from her. If you don't offer the same to her about the things that matter to her, she will notice. If you don’t treat her with respect she's going to start questioning why she keeps up her end of your bargain."

"She agreed to be here, and the restrictions on her behaviour are entirely generous and lenient considering the circumstances."

"She did make a choice, but you gave her a pretty shitty set of options, to be honest. Of course she’ll take this over going back to her family, homelessness, a kidnapping, or jail time. Besides, no matter how lenient her probation is, she's a teenager. You want to keep her on the straight and narrow? You need her to see this as her team, not as a gilded cage."

"She needs to learn how to be a team player, but that normally does not mean dispensing with any reasonable expectation of following the rules," Armsmaster cut in, and Assault glared at his captain for a moment. Armsmaster carried on, apparently oblivious. "However, discipline isn’t the same thing as keeping her in the dark. In this particular instance keeping secrets serves no purpose. She is likely to find out regardless. She's kept herself cloistered within the PRT headquarters far more than I expected, avoiding leaving except when necessary. Giving her more to be afraid of won't change that. I don’t believe she’ll do anything so reckless as retaliating against her suspected kidnapper without support."

"The thing is, Piggot, we all knew what she was capable of from that first time she spoke to you," Assault said. He was mollified, apparently, by the realisation that Armsmaster was at least somewhat on his side. Now Piggot had to face something like a united front. "When I met her she was a wreck, one step away from a meltdown, which is still a hell of a lot better than most of us would be doing in her position. A half-decent night's sleep later, and she’s verbally sparring with adult capes and her future boss. I just think she's more likely to end up looking for trouble if you freeze her out. She'll be sassing Endbringers given half a chance."

"Theatrical to the point of absurdity, but you've made your point. I will take it under advisement," she said.

“You should do more than that,” Armsmaster said. Piggot frowned at him, but he didn’t slow down at all. “Put her into the field. Give her things to do. Give her buy-in. She’ll be a good cape if she feels like you’re setting her up for success.”

“And don’t forget that she is, y'know, a person too,” Assault added. “She’s not a villain, she doesn’t have inscrutable goals or ridiculous plans. She wants what we all want, to feel safe and happy, you know? You’re not going to gain anything by getting in the way of that.”

Piggot stared at the two men, and they stared through their masks and visors right back at her. If she hadn’t been so tired and so distracted she might have seen this mild insubordination coming. Assault was a passable soldier most days, willing to fall in line and take orders when things got serious. When he dug in his heels, he was a miserable pain in her ass, rather like another person Piggot had recently met. It wasn't every day that he was in open agreement with Armsmaster, either. They’d taken very different routes to arrive at roughly the same conclusion, which was, predictably, to empower another dangerous parahuman and give her even more of a free hand. Was it worth Piggot’s time to break up this united front?

She'd have to think it over later.

“My policy towards her has already been decided by the contract we both signed and my duties to the public as Director,” she said. Both men opened their mouths to argue, and she raised one hand from where it rested on the table. “However, I acknowledge that I possess… a degree of latitude, let’s say, in how I choose to apply said policy.”

They relaxed.

“Will that be all?” When they didn’t respond, Piggot slowly pushed herself to her feet. “Then you may go. I’m needed elsewhere.”

In all honesty she would much rather have argued with her capes for another hour rather than take this meeting, but she’d put it off long enough already. She didn’t hurry as she walked on aching legs to her office, which was on the opposite side of the top floor of the building from the conference room.

The ghost was standing next to her office door. The fact that he was here at all was suspicious. The fact that he was here now was worse. She didn’t acknowledge him as she made her way to her door, opened it, and began to step over the threshold. He began to follow her, and she had her excuse to say, “I don’t recall inviting you in.”

She closed the door behind her.

This was only the second time in her life she’d met Thomas Calvert. Given a choice, she never would do so again. Her memories of her time in Ellisburg were hazy, the edges blurred by stress and painkillers, the details relegated to her nightmares. She remembered only one thing with crystal clarity: her conversation with the only other survivor of that terrible day.

She'd listened to the madman, then dutifully put every word of what he'd said into her debriefing report. Piggot had barely been lucid when she’d written the dry and matter-of-fact account of a man explaining prosaically how he’d murdered his CO, as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience to him. Most people would’ve sounded more agitated about being issued a speeding ticket.

Calvert had expected a prison sentence and for good reason. Years later, Piggot had heard through the grapevine that he'd received an honourable discharge. Something had gone horribly wrong. She must’ve made a mistake in her opiate-addled haze. She’d filed a request to make an amendment to her statement, wracking her brain for some minor detail she'd failed to remember at the time, just so that she would have cause to go back and look over her own words.

Her signature had been appended to a document she never wrote. Someone had tampered with the report, removing all mention of the man who now stood outside Piggot’s office door. She was ashamed to admit it but that alien document, attributed to her pen, had frightened her just as much as all of Ellisburg put together. She made her own amendments—some pro-forma additions about the particular nature of her own exfil—duly notarised them, then never spoke of it again. There were few things in her life that she regretted, and that was one of them. She knew a coverup when she saw it, but what good would it have done to fight over this? Without any evidence and years after the fact she wouldn't have been whistleblowing so much as painting a target on her own back.

And now here Calvert was, on her doorstep, already playing games. He'd cancelled their meeting twice at the last moment so far, and he'd only been grudgingly willing to even set them up after it was patently clear that her office would not be clearing anything with his name attached without her express permission. She could have made this an email, but if he wanted anything from her he would have to look her in the eye and ask for it.

She retrieved a tape recorder from a desk drawer, turned it on, and returned it to her desk. It was sensitive enough to make out everything clearly even with the drawer closed, she'd tested that beforehand. This was the first time in her life that Piggot had consciously broken the law. This state required both parties to consent to recording a conversation, and she had no plans to mention this to Calvert at all. She was violating a half-dozen internal regulations and protocols, the law, and her own principles, but it was worth it. She'd fall on her own sword if she had to. She’d make no excuses. She knew this was wrong. She simply had to make exceptions when presented with Thomas Calvert.

Thus prepared, she called, “Come in,” and then the door opened.

She did not stand up as he entered. He was gaunt, his cheeks sunken and papery skin pulled tight over his bones. They were both wasting away in their own ways, the rot of Ellisburg festering within their bodies.

"Commander Calvert," she said, by way of greeting. There wasn't any point in dancing around the matter at hand. "On May 28th, my office received a request for information on the Livsey investigation. You signed off on the submission and there have been concerns raised about it."

Calvert sat himself down across from her, moving with a fluidity that did not match the angular skin-and-bones figure.

“Director,” he said, in the cool and fluid tones of running water. “The years have been kind to you. I’m here because I’m worried about wasting taxpayer money with redundancies.”

"Let me guess,” she said. “Watchdog has opened a separate Livsey investigation?"

He nodded. Piggot could’ve hit something. Watchdog was perhaps the most rotten part of the entire PRT. The organisation she’d dedicated her life to had been founded in support of transparency and supervision of parahuman activity. So, where did they send the most dangerous Thinkers and Strangers? Where did they dispense with any hint of accountability? Where else, but Internal Affairs: the Watchdog department.

"Last year, the department filed a report on a hitherto unidentified parahuman operating out of Burlington, Vermont,” Calvert said, leaning forward in his chair. “They tapped me to organise a task force to track down this parahuman, which led me to identifying Fred Livsey, an executive at an accounting services firm, as a probable culprit. Three months ago we began to investigate him, his wife, and his runaway daughter for crimes ranging from every kind of market manipulation on the books, to wire fraud, to racketeering. You can imagine my surprise when a runaway parahuman girl turns up in nearby Brockton Bay with the very same surname."

“This isn’t storytime,” she told him. “Tell me in plain English what you want from me.”

"Very well. As it stands our investigations are redundant. While you have new resources I lacked, you are also poised to replicate thousands of hours of work that my team has already performed for no reason."

"Are you suggesting that we consolidate them into a single task force?"

Calvert shook his head. "It is not my intention to impinge upon your authority here. I would like to save both of our investigations’ time and resources, setting up a liaison to ensure we aren't duplicating our efforts unnecessarily.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” she said. “Will that be all?”

“No. There is also the matter of Livsey—excuse me, of Wilbourn herself."

"Vixen," Piggot corrected. When Calvert frowned she added, "It's the cape name she chose for herself. It's cleared everything but the final round of costuming decisions, and it will be official within a week."

"Watchdog was already interested in her abilities, based on the recommendations I made in my report," he continued, with no further acknowledgement of what she'd said.

"I was not under the impression that Watchdog had ever been in the habit of working with people who hadn’t cleared several rounds of vetting, in the wake of the Accord fiasco. More to the point, she is not a member of Watchdog, but of the Protectorate East-Northeast. I don’t remember adding a ‘finders-keepers’ clause to her contract next to all the other restrictions we placed upon her."

Piggot had not expected to have to fend off interbranch encroachment quite so soon, but she had not been blind to the possibility. She wasn't above weaponising Vixen's contract against other elements in the PRT. She hadn’t designed her contract simply to keep one monster on a leash, but all of them. She’d known since Ellisburg that her colleagues were some of the most dangerous people in the world, and she was never going to lose a fight again. Not with them, not here, and not over this. The girl was nowhere near ready to be thrown to the wolves. Even if the leanest and hungriest of them showed up at her door, Piggot wouldn’t give him a scrap.

"I am sure that we can set up a procedure that works for everyone involved," Calvert said. "As a first step I understand that the preliminary power testing has been completed, and I need a copy of it. To streamline the Livsey investigation and future collaboration between your department and Watchdog, you see."

"The review copy is still impounded. You will have to submit a request for access with my assistant."

Calvert cocked his head, examining her with cold eyes.

"When is the last time you checked your email, Director?” he asked, and her heart sank. It was the kind of question you’d only ever ask if you knew the answer to it already. With the same dread she’d felt as she looked at her warped deposition on Ellisburg, she cast her eyes down at her laptop and checked her inbox.

While she’d been stuck in her meeting, she’d been copied onto a chain of emails between Calvert and Chief Director Costa-Brown. She scanned them quickly and her stomach sank.

She should’ve known better. There was no way to keep a PRT commander-at-large with the backing of Watchdog out of somewhere he wanted to be, not without losing her job. He had, in fact, been invested with the power to demand her cooperation.

“So, when can I expect those files?” he asked, with barely-disguised triumph.

“They’ll be on your desk tomorrow morning,” she answered, because there was nothing else she could do. Her boss had been quite explicit, at least in that particular matter.

Calvert left her behind. Piggot stared through the glass at the sea and the sun.

She had been ordered to share one particular file with Calvert. So she would, even if he was maybe the one man in the world she truly hated. But she could invoke every rule and regulation to slow-walk each and every step between Thomas Calvert and Vixen. She could force him to document every request he made, keep copies and record everything. She would catch out every typo and mistake and turn each into hours or days of delays. If she ever caught him in a lie… she would ruin him.

She would watch him like a hawk, waiting for some misstep that finally let her unravel whatever had happened in the wake of Ellisburg. Already he had given away enough that she was dead certain that it wasn't just Watchdog tipping him off about the goings-on within her department. He had someone on the inside. Now all that mattered was who had betrayed her to this man, and why?

Knowing her enemy was a start. Beyond that, her hands were tied, at least for the moment. Something lurked in the shadows of the PRT, and that something had Calvert's back. If she wanted to unmask this conspiracy, she had to be smarter than she’d been as a drugged ex-squaddie. A single misstep could cost her her chance at the truth… or her life.

How fortunate for her that she’d just recruited the perfect person to help uncover the truth.

Notes:

So who had accidental mama bear Piggot on their UA bingo card?

I exaggerate, but she does carry us to the conclusion of our first arc, setting the stage for the second as Lisa realises how deep she has managed to get herself. I love Piggot as a character, and one that doesn't get enough love. She's a complex bigot.

I'm legit proud of how she comes across here, and a lot of that is thanks to the utterly stunning job ether did with this one. It shines like it would not have if I were doing this on my own. She is, as always, the best.

Some final house cleaning. First, there are arc names now! Also while I have a lot of this story plotted fairly deep in, my scene by scene notes are mostly exhausted, so I'm probably going to take a few days to a week to just focus on getting arc 2 organised and plotted before getting back to draft writing. I've kept up a pretty good pace, and intend to continue that, but I need a little while to make sure I know where I'm going. Expect a scheduling hiccup, but a small one.

Finally, thank you all so much for following along. I never would have imagined that I would have gotten such an incredible response to UA and it is flattering and heartwarming to see how many people are reading and enjoying my silly Lisa fic. I hope that you'll all continue to enjoy it as we start Arc 2: Encryption.

Chapter 8: Encryption 2.1

“You don’t do anything by halves, do you?” Victoria says as she leans in over my shoulder.

“Well, what would be the point of that?”

I’m seated in front of a dressing room mirror in a big comfy stylists chair and I’d been admiring my reflection until Victoria interrupted me. I can't say how much better I feel after having my hair done. No more raggedy ends or constant tangling like I'd gotten used to over the months. I look like myself again; no, better than myself.

"You realise that when I was suggesting you think about going red, I wasn't thinking anything nearly this extreme."

"No?" I ask, meeting Victoria’s eyes in the mirror. This is the first time she’s seen me all week, and I thought it would be fun to surprise her with this. I followed her advice, and now the deep red of my hair reflects the light from the bulbs set around the mirror until it practically glows. I've swapped out the blue tips for black, save for the pure red of my curtain bangs. For now I have it all pulled up into a high ponytail, making it look like a fox's tail. "I think it looks fucking great. You were on to something."

"I often am. It's fabulous. Problem is, you're probably the only person in the entire Bay with hair this wild. Your secret identity is done for."

"The only one until my fans start copying me, duh."

That gets a laugh out of her. She elbows me in the shoulder and moves away from the dressing room vanity to check up on Vista, who still hasn’t decided whether or not she’s happy to be here. We all had our makeup professionally done for this, and I think I've learned more from the PRT stylists in the past half hour than I have in the rest of my life put together. Vista has obviously done this enough times that the novelty’s worn off. It doesn't seem like it's her bag anyhow.

"You can probably do something like I do with mine," she says. She's standing on a chair to get a better look in the mirror, trying to decide how much she can get away with altering the dress she's got on. Victoria gives her a hand to help her keep steady. Vista’s nixed anything girly for the photoshoot, but veered away from anything overly masculine when Green gave her other options like a vest with slacks. Those were vetoed as well and she’s been fretting ever since.

"I'm pretty sure that’s what the hood's for," I say. "Or maybe every cape has a secret Stranger rating that makes the dinky little masks actually work. Seriously, some of these should be obvious."

"What’s that about a hood? Is your costume finally done?" Victoria perks up at that little detail, looking back over at me, then sighs and shakes her head. "And you don't get to wear it your first time out as your new self. That just figures."

"It’s done-ish. It's all approved, but they're still turning the prototype into the finished version. Waiting around for armoured plates to finish or whatever. I could never have worn it tonight but I've done a photoshoot in it already for the press releases, and anything that needs smoothing will be fixed in post."

If she'd perked up before now she's absolutely rapt. "There are pictures? Oh, do you have them? Can I see?"

“You’ll have to ask my publicist.”

Victoria pouts.

“Orrrr I could text you a photo of it when I get back to base tonight? I can probably manage to beat tomorrow morning’s official reveal. They're going to post the announcement alongside the photos from this shoot, so that my public debut isn't in a dress. It’s a bit janky but it beats getting put in front of a firing line of reporters.”

“Most people would call that a ‘press conference’, Vix.”

I've already been proven right in avoiding names like Epiphany. Vix is just so much better than Piff.

“Eh. Besides, even though my costume’s starting to come together, at the press conference I couldn’t show off this little thing,” I say as I gesture down at myself and strike a pose, leaning against the counter with hips cocked to emphasise the point. I’m wearing a sheer top under a little black dress and thigh-high black leather lace-up boots over hose. The patterns of stitched lace around my neck breaks up the outfit and creates lines that draw the eye, and the red lacquer of my Colombina mask provides the only splash of colour in the outfit.

Victoria obliges me with a wolfwhistle.

"Cute. Very ‘emo princess’. I can't believe they let you get away with it."

"It only worked because my first suggestions were completely ludicrous. Green’s head almost exploded. I let her talk me down to a more reasonable option, which is what I actually wanted anyways. It's not indecent, just alternative."

"Right, that's it exactly. It's very alt and this is a really formal party," she says, indicating the green sequinned off-the-shoulder gown she's got on.

"I'm not sure I'd be able to compete with you there. You've got that style on lock, prom queen."

“Prom queen?” She gives me an exaggerated wounded look, bringing a hand up over her heart.

"Anyway, it's a cocktail dress, just with extras. It gives me, ahem, ‘a distinctive rebellious and countercultural look that is nevertheless age-appropriate and still within the bounds of heroic fashion.’ And it rocks the new hairstyle."

"Did you practise that?"

"I had help. Easier to chalk up wins if you're willing to play the game."

The whole outfit is an experiment, to be honest. I'd always leaned a bit more preppy; I’d only stopped wearing skirts over leggings with mary janes in high school. Even then it was more of a way to separate my casual repertoire from my school uniform than the result of any strong aesthetic opinions.

Things are different now. I've got a new school, new friends, new identity. What better time to reinvent myself? Maybe this outfit doesn’t suit me and I'll never dress like this again, but it’s something different. I’m forging my own path, defining myself in opposition to my past self as well as everyone else at the event. It'll be memorable if nothing else. My debut is going to make a huge splash, and it's one more small way to try to make sure that I have a stranglehold on how I get to present myself, even if I never try the ‘scene princess’ look again.

"Well, I think it looks good," Vista says, rather forcefully. Then she sighs. "I wish I'd thought to get combat boots for this."

"Thanks, V," I say, restraining the urge to ruffle her hair. "These are Doc Martens, though. Workboots, not combat boots."

Victoria makes a strangled little noise but when I look over at her her expression is schooled and impassive. I wouldn’t know she was forcing herself not to laugh if my power didn’t tell me so.

"We should go meet up with the boys. They're probably about done and we're already supposed to be starting like five minutes ago."

I narrow my eyes at the especially transparent deflection. I’d go poking around to find out what was apparently so funny, but she was laughing with me, not at me. I’ll wring it out of her later.

Vista hops off her chair with a groan. "Fuuuuck, they're going to get all the kids age-matched with us, aren't they? I'm going to get a whole photoshoot of me and Heart Defender Princess Melody."

“The alternative is getting matched with a graduating senior, and you look like the kid they had when they were thirteen by comparison,” I point out.

Vista grumbles a few choice expletives under her breath. It is fucking criminal that I can't ruffle her hair. Her 'I'm a middle schooler who kind of wishes she were a child soldier’ schtick is as concerning as it is adorable.

"I'll swap with you,” I tell her. “Heart Defender Princess Melody and Emo Princess Nightraven sound like they'd make a fantastic team."

Victoria is still giggling by the time we meet up with the boys. We step out onto the scratchy carpet of the hotel hallway as Triumph herds them out of their own dressing room. He’s looking stressed. He isn't really responsible for any of us—all that’s the job of the costumers and event coordinators—but the dude takes his job as captain way too seriously. They're all wearing the same damn thing, reminding us all how men’s formal wear is uninspired and boring. I'm almost monochrome and I'm miles ahead of their most daring and outrageous. The only thing setting the boys apart is their cufflinks and the color of their pocket squares.

The best thing about this all being pseudo-in-costume is that when Victoria catches sight of Gallant she can’t do anything except wave politely. At school she’d be greeting him in a much more enthusiastic manner.

Amy must be some kind of precog. Her prediction about the two of them had been less than 24 hours off. It had been four days, not three, before Victoria had extracted the most stilted apology possible from him. I'd considered calling him out over his insincerity but decided in the end that it’d be a bad look for me.

Things have been slightly frosty between us ever since, for some reason. At least now he has to deal with both Amy and me when he decides to try and have lunch with Victoria. While Amy barely tolerates me, she really can’t stand Dean. Half the time he doesn't even bother, because he has a weak will and mine is strong.

Amy’s not here to back me up this time, so I have to pick up her slack and bother Gallant twice as much. I raise my arm until he notices me pointing at him and raises an eyebrow.

"Penguin," I say.

Gallant looks down at himself, his fingers running over the edge of his cummerbund. He means to smooth it, but his nervous overcorrection tugs on the chain of his fobwatch and leaves the whole outfit more unbalanced than it was before.

"I already had it on hand,” he admits, casting a look back at the rest of his party. He’s starting to feel overdressed, which is good, because he is. “It’s not that bad, is it?"

I can’t help but roll my eyes. Full evening dress, really? He just had it on hand? It's not just a tux like Aegis is wearing, but an honest to god tailcoat. It's the uniform of the self-important business tyrant, but even my dad had to rent that kind of thing instead of pulling it out of his closet.

Victoria drops a hand onto my shoulder, a warning not to push further.

"I think he looks absolutely dashing," Victoria says, beaming at him in a way that makes him smile goofily. As she leaves my side for his, she passes her carnival mask to me so I can hold on to it for her. I oblige her and watch as she takes her sweet time straightening out his cummerbund. Vista and I share a long suffering look. She’s jealous of Victoria and mostly succeeds in being mature about it. Not me though: I just think they’re being gross.

"Very dashing indeed, Glory Girl," I say, passing her mask back to her. I think it’s silly to wear a mask now if she never really does in costume, but it has the desired effect of reminding them where they are. The two break apart, and Glory Girl looks around sheepishly to make sure no one has seen them together. I force myself to change how I think of her as well. It’s good practice, even if the name is ridiculous and it's hard to think of her as anything but Victoria.

"Where's Laserdream?" Triumph asks. He’s been tapping his foot during the whole exchange as he gets progressively more fed up with all of us. The stick up his ass must be starting to ache.

"She'll be around," Glory Girl reassures him. "She was at a college orientation earlier and she and a few of her friends will be catching up."

Triumph makes a face. "College orientation in July?"

"Yeah, for incoming freshmen," she says. "BBU does it pretty early."

"Can you hurry her along? Send her a text or something? We're supposed to be getting started," he says with a sigh. "Green's already finishing up the costuming for the invitees in the hall and we'll be meeting there."

With that, he shoos the boys down the hall. Gallant waves back at us over his shoulder, and Vista skips along behind him. Glory Girl lingers to dig her phone out of her purse so she can send the text. I hang back as well. I figure I can get away with being fashionably late, and the subject of Laserdream has me thinking.

"So, I get why none of the Wards' friends showed up, secret identities and all, but where are yours?" I ask her as I lean against the wall by a stock photo the hotel managers have hung up and framed for some reason.

Glory Girl smiles at me with an expression that manages to be coy and guileless at the same time. "She's right here."

"Dork," I say. "I mean it, though. You're really going to just sail by this without having anyone come along?"

"I can't think of anyone I'd invite outside of you and Amy."

I make a sceptical noise. “You know every single popular kid in the school. You’re a tall pretty blonde jock. Don’t pretend like you’re a social pariah.”

“Yeah, okay, I know them, I see them at events like this, but…”

She looks down at her phone again and fidgets. I can see the bubble of an outgoing text from a few seconds ago; she’s already done telling her cousin to hurry up and now she’s just killing time. She’s looking away from me because I’ve upset her somehow, and that realisation upsets me as well.

I go digging for answers, and my power supplies them.

Sense of alienation: has always felt alienated from peers, alienation intensified since trigger event. Feels different from others; is different from others. Unsure whether anyone would talk to her if she didn’t have powers/parents with powers. No close unpowered friends.

“You’ve been lonely,” I say as I put together the pieces. Glory Girl nods as she puts her phone away. Her mask is warping a bit as she bends it between both hands.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to figure out how I'm supposed to handle that. I know that Glory Girl is a hugger. Am I allowed to hug her? Would that be weird? Would it even help?

“This is what I am,” she says. “Being a cape, it’s what I know. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I’ve always wanted. How am I supposed to talk to—I hate to say it—normal people? I’ve never felt normal.”

“You’re weird, for sure, but so are the other capes I’ve met,” I tell her in a rush, pretty sure I’m making a mistake somehow as I do. “That's not an insurmountable barrier to making friends.”

“Isn’t it? There’s Crystal and Vista, and they’re great, but they’re a bit too old or young to ever feel like my peers. I love Amy to pieces, but she’s my sister. It’s different. Besides, she’s not into being a cape like me, you know? She doesn’t like talking about it. My boyfriend is so important to me because he’s in it, you know? He’s a hero, he likes being a hero, but…”

“But you resent that he still has his old friends and you don’t,” I said. “Just a little bit. It’s one more thing that makes you feel like you’re different.”

I don't have to open my eyes or see her reaction to know that I was right.

Victoria thinks of me as a close friend. One of her only friends, even though we’ve barely known each other for a month. The realisation makes me feel a bit like I’ve been pushed off a ledge.

I clear my throat, taking the silence as an opportunity to sidetrack the conversation.

"Speaking of Amy, she's not coming?" I ask as I look back over towards Glory Girl. "I never heard a definitive answer on that."

"She got out of it by double booking herself. She’s volunteering at the hospital. She told Carol—let me make sure I get this right—‘I’d rather be elbow deep in shit and pus than show up to that fundraiser.’ That went over well."

"Yeah, that sounds like her. Don't look at me like that, I meant it in a nice way." I did not mean it in a nice way, but for some reason Glory Girl’s still convinced that I'm a decent person. "She would have hated it here anyhow."

Glory Girl has a visibly conflicted moment as her kneejerk loyalty towards her sister wars with the reality that is Amy Dallon. "She does just fine at social events."

I scoff. "Are we talking about the same Amy? A hundred and ten listless pounds of sarcasm and resentment, with the bedside manner of a coroner?"

She elbows me. She barely has to move her arm to do so, because somehow the two of us are standing very close. "That's funny; you're paraphrasing her description of you. She gets along fine when she wants to. I'd like to see you go on blind dates with half as much grace as she does."

My mental picture of Amy just doesn't fit that description at all for more reasons than I count. "She goes on blind dates?"

"Yeah, with me and my boyfriend. They're not, like, blind blind since I set her up with the guys, but close enough."

It takes me a few tries to respond to that, doing my best goldfish impression along the way. "You set up Amy with guys, and you take her on double dates?"

"Yeah?" She looks puzzled. "What's so weird about that?"

"Because she's—your sister," I say as I realise mid-sentence that holy shit I am about to out Amy, who is apparently still in the closet somehow, and manage to avoid saying that she's a one woman pride parade.

Glory Girl presses her fingers to her temples. "You’re not going to be creepy about that, are you? Trust me, whatever you’re thinking, some creep has already said it before. We are not a ‘package deal’ or anything like that. I set her up with someone, bring her along on a date with my boyfriend, and at a minimum we get a nice meal that someone else pays for. That’s it."

So I’ve apparently struck a nerve, but at least she isn't suspicious of the actual blunder I just narrowly avoided.

"She seems like she's got a lot going on in her life. Do you think that there's maybe a reason she isn't looking for a partner right now? Maybe she’s…” I stall for time as I page through my mental thesaurus for an inoffensive way to imply that someone is a lesbian. There aren’t many. “Trying to find herself?"

Glory Girl chews her lip. “Maybe.”

I don’t think she grasped my meaning. Whatever. She doesn’t say anything else, so we lapse into an awkward silence. I’m really glad Amy isn't here tonight, and not just because that means she didn't witness me nearly outing her. I spent the last month of the school year having classes and lunch with Glory Girl, and since Amy tags along every chance she's given, I’ve spent a lot of time with the two of them at this point. Figuring out what the fuck I am supposed to say or do about her feelings for Glory Girl isn't getting any easier with time. If anything, conversations like this are only making it harder.

Learning everyone's secrets is so easy. Living with the consequences is a work in progress. It was a lot easier when I didn’t give a shit about anyone. I’d already known my parents were fucked up well before I’d triggered, and I didn't stick around afterwards long enough for the new horrors I uncovered to matter anyways. I’d met some weirdos and freaks out on the streets or when running cons, but I never had to deal with them for more than a few days. I certainly never let any of them into my heart.

Well, now I'm screwed, because I've ended up friends with Glory Girl—one of her only friends, somehow—and there is no way I can cut her off and feel okay with myself about it. That means that the Amy Dallon Experience is something I just have to learn to live with.

Glory Girl distracts me by speaking, which is good, but unfortunately what she says is very bad.

"Hey, you wouldn't want to—"

"Oh, no no no. Very no. Absolutely not," I cut her off. "We are not triple dating. We’re not double dating. I’m not even single dating.”

“That’s a shame,” Glory Girl says, quietly.

“It would be a disaster,” I sigh. “I am so, so not in the market anyhow. Power completely ruins the mystique. The fun part is getting to know people, the back and forth, the repartée. I get to skip right past that, yay, and then, oh no, my power tells me all the weird annoying habits and unspeakable perversions my partner has."

“I wonder if you could trick your power. I’ve read that Thinkers can, sometimes: train yourself not to think in certain ways. Force yourself to be oblivious, basically, so that you could make things work with someone.”

“My power doesn’t really do oblivious. It’s never off for long.”

Glory Girl gives me a sympathetic look, then she grabs me around the shoulder and pulls me into a hug. "Damn. I’m sorry, Vixen, that really sucks."

I let out a long pent-up sigh as I lean against her. She smells nice, like mint and eucalyptus. "Yeah, Amy had that one right. Powers suck. Come on, they're probably going to be organising a search party for us if we don't show up soon."

She grimaces. “I’d be fine. You might be screwed. Let’s hurry.”

I’d never cared that much about romance before triggering. Well, no, that's not quite true. I loved the gossip and drama surrounding my peers hooking up with one another, but I've never had a crush on anyone myself. The most I can do is toss bombs at people from the sidelines. Romance never felt worth pursuing before and it definitely doesn't now, after how fucked up my life has been.

There’s probably a late bloomer buried somewhere within me, but she’s been driven into deep hiding by months of my power supplying a running narration of what every other man who crossed my path thought about the pretty blonde homeless waif. Things are only a bit better as a Ward. Now I have to put up with Clockblocker's fantasies, which are just normal teenaged boy stuff, I think, and so a lot less objectionable but also a lot harder to escape.

"Oh, hey, I almost forgot," I say as we hustle our way down towards the main hall. "What’s so funny about boots?"

"What?"

"Back in the dressing room. You wanted to make a dirty joke about them but thought better of it. Well, spill. Vista's not around anymore."

I glance over at her just in time to see the realisation blossom over her expression. She's smiling again. That's a win.

"The workboots, right. It's a stupid story. There was this time Amy and I were out shoe shopping and I asked her if the high-heeled boots I was trying on made me look like a whore. Carol overheard and she was pissed. Got a whole lecture right there about demeaning language and how sex work is real work and how if we only knew half the things she'd seen about how those women were treated by the police and the justice system."

"Right there in the shoe store? Ouch."

"She’s real passionate about that kind of thing. Anyways. Later on I'm trying out another similar pair and I ask Amy what she thinks. She gives me this flat look and asks, 'Shouldn't your workboots be a bit more practical?' I almost lost it right there. Only reason I kept a lid on it was to keep Carol from getting mad at Amy too. Workboots ended up code for hooker boots for months."

"What an… odd thing for her to say about you,” I say, enunciating each word very slowly.

"Maybe you just had to be there. That kind of inside joke is always like that, Miss Glory Hole," she says. Her smile turns a little wistful. "She has a real sense of humour. It used to come out more. You just met her during a hard time. She'll get through it."

I have no idea what to say to that. Fortunately, we round the next corner and push open a side door to the main hall, saving me from having to figure something out. There’s a serious crowd waiting for us. None of the Wards got to wiggle out of coming, unlike Panacea, which was probably my fault. It would have looked bad not having the whole team present at my debut. Laserdream, Shielder, and Glory Girl put us at an even ten underaged heroes. Then there’s maybe twice that many staff running the event, plus the photoshoot invitees who outnumber the heroes four or five to one. Each of them is accompanied by a gaggle of friends and parents. Add to that an assortment of local officials—why is the mayor here?—and people who bought tickets so they could show up and look important, and the attendance is starting to approach two hundred people in total.

It's quieter than I would have expected for all that. The noise in the hotel’s event room is closer to a dull roar than a wild din. The crowd is more focused on drinks and hors d'oeuvres than chatter for now, and a decent chunk of attendees are still milling around the long tables where catered food is set over little burners to keep warm.

Glory Girl and I scarcely have a moment to linger at the doorway before Shavonne Green spots us and moves to intercept.

"I was just about to wondering if Laserdream was going to beat you two here," she says, straightening out the sleeve of one of her endless variety of cable-knit sweaters. "We've still got a few costumes to finish putting together but no reason to delay the introductions for that. Are you both ready?"

We nod, and she leads us to where the cadre of underaged heroes have clustered together. I can see why she's eager if everything's running late already, especially since at least half an hour of the event is going to be hijacked as part of a government agency’s PR stunt. She finds her way to a lectern on the little stage at the head of the room, and it only takes a moment for her to prove she’s an old hand at this. She has the crowd’s attention immediately, and folks fall quiet as they realize the event has finally begun. Then there’s the usual boilerplate: she thanks everyone for their patience, recognising half a dozen people specifically and the entire hotel staff generally for helping put the event together.

I tune out most of the short speech; we all know that it's a special night and how important education is. I plaster on my best crowd-pleaser of a smile. It’s not my first rodeo either.

Then, finally, she gets to the point.

“Some of the more observant members of our audience might’ve noticed a new face—or mask—with us tonight. Well, it’s time to introduce you to her. Please join me in giving a warm welcome to the newest member of your Wards team, Vixen!”

After the applause ends, the crowd descends on me. Green pushes her way past them and surreptitiously passes me an autograph pen. I hand it off to Glory Girl to carry for me and start shaking hands.

Notes:

Aaaand we're back. Took a bit longer than I wanted. I did the week off for plotting, then I was out of town for a while, then life got busy. You know how it goes. On top of that this chapter got so long it had to get split into two. Upside, that means chapter 2.2 is basically done being drafted and should be out a bit quicker.

Ether did lovely work as always, including suggesting one of my very favourite bits in this entire chapter—one of the moments of Lisa being particularly unaware and oblivious, because I think that's funny. Talking about story direction during the plotting break also made me think about how incredible of an editor in specific she's been. Despite the enormous amount of work she's put into this it this still feels exactly like the story I'd always wanted to write. That's an incredible talent. <3

The next one should be out sooner, so please look forward to it! We get to see how the party goes. I'm sure it'll be smooth sailing and nothing will go wrong.

Chapter 9: Encryption 2.2

I don't get butterflies or stage fright as a rule. At the age of six I cheerfully cornered an adult in a doctor's office waiting room so I could tell them everything I knew about horses. I’m not shy about socialising. As I grew up and my dad and I got more and more sick of one another, I started to get entire blissful months away from him in the mythical lands of Colorado summer camp. Meeting new people I knew I’d never see again was one of the only things that ever truly made me feel at peace. Even while I was homeless, the one thing that never fazed me was dealing with people.

So I hadn't been anxious in the runup to Vice-Versa, not in the way lately that I've felt the occasional twinge of unease in public or had trouble settling in at the base. All I’ve had is anticipation anxiety that I might end up choking on the day of.

I feel a little silly now for worrying even that much. I'm not ready to reclaim my throne as local queen bee, and I can't say I'm feeling comfortable right now, but I haven't felt comfortable in a long time. Being in front of a crowd without a creeping feeling of dread is a step up from where I’ve been. I can deal with this party. I've got years of practise doing stupid social events, and back then I didn't even have a best friend backing me up.

It only makes sense. I'm new and exciting and I have gorgeous hair. Unfortunately I’m so new and exciting that I don’t make it out of the meet-and-greet part of the evening for the better part of the next hour. I’ve shaken enough hands that my wrist is sore, which is pretty lame. I’m also parched. As soon as there’s a lull, I make my excuses and make a break for the refreshments table.

Glory Girl is already there, standing apart from the crowd. She’s holding up the mask with one hand and has a virgin mimosa in the other, which is a funny way of saying she’s found orange juice and Perrier and poured one into another while no one was looking. She holds her drink at an odd angle, with her long fingers wrapped elegantly around the plastic stem of the champagne glass. She’s bored and a bit annoyed, which surprises me, because I thought she’d been looking forward to this.

“Who pissed you off?” I ask as I scoop up a glass of my own on my way to her. I’ve grabbed something fancy with layers. Mine runs from pink to red to orange, which is pretty but doesn't bode well for the taste. Any time people put that much effort into appearance, corners have to be getting cut somewhere else.

Glory Girl brightens as she sees me but still shakes her head in the negative.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says. “Tonight is about you. Also some other people who won awards and stuff getting to try on costumes, I guess, but let’s be real. You’re the star. Are you enjoying yourself, Vixen?”

“Pretty great so far. So many of the people who were just talking at me are having affairs, sometimes even with one another. Should I spill?”

She smiles but doesn’t engage, her focus elsewhere as she watches the crowd behind me. For now I don’t follow her gaze.

“Cheer up, Glory Girl,” I say as I tap my glass against hers. The plastic does not clink. It barely even makes a pathetic little ‘bonk’ sound. “If you’re over here moping you can’t wingman for me. I need to meet people, but I’m so pretty and talented it makes people scared to talk to me. I need you around to make me seem more approachable.”

“You’re so full of shit,” she laughs. The laugh is a win. “Fine. Look over your shoulder, five o’clock.”

I tilt my head to look and spot some of my teammates engaged in a conversation with a small gaggle of girls. I spy the problem almost immediately; one of them is standing intimately close to Gallant. He’s shying away as I watch, but he obviously hasn’t just told her to fuck off yet.

"The redhead princess standing next to Gallant and that Shadow Stalker knock-off?" I ask. Glory Girl nods. “That’s weird, right? Dressing up as a real person, and a vigilante, it’s kind of in poor taste?”

“Anyone who’s put that many Nazis in the hospital can’t be that bad,” Glory Girl says, half under her breath. After a moment’s thought, she continues. “Her friend, the redhead. Emma. Her dad works at the same firm my mother does. She’s been sniffing around Gallant all night."

"Why do you know the families of your mother's random colleagues?"

"Tch, I've seen her at work parties before. There wasn't much other company my age."

"Yeah, I bet. And now you can’t tell her to back off, because Gallant is currently an eligible bachelor.”

She makes an unhappy noise in the back of her throat. “Neither of them are doing anything wrong.”

Debatable. I can't fault Emma for seeing her shot and taking it, but he doesn't have to be putting up with her nonsense. I'd normally give a teenaged boy a pass on account of being thick and not noticing. Gallant is an exception.

“You’re pissed anyway, though.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, “but I can’t blow up his spot. I’ve just been waiting for her to leave for a few minutes now.”

“Well, we can’t have that. Let’s get you back with your friends. Also if this girl has any embarrassing stories about you I need to know them."

I set off, trusting her to follow. Glory Girl is trailing after me for once. Gallant must’ve been doing really badly, because he’s actually relieved to see me. He looks away from his unwanted conversation partner as we arrive and waves at the two of us.

"Emma," I say, sing-song, as I barge back into the party. "Glory Girl was just talking about you."

Emma looks bewildered. The way she carries herself screams that she's used to being the centre of attention—teen model, aspiring socialite—but it's not enough to prepare her for me. She flounders for a moment as every member of her little clique is suddenly staring at her.

"Only… good things, I trust?" she hedges. Behind her, Gallant makes a break for it, taking three polite steps back and away until Kid Win is between them like a shield.

“Just that she’s impressed how well you’re getting along with the Wards,” I say.

She smiles, looks around, then stops smiling when she realizes there aren’t any young heroes within arm’s reach of her anymore. Gallant takes a sip from his drink, an innocent smile on his face.

"She’s giving you a hard time," Glory Girl explains as she catches up to me. I make a face at her for ruining my fun. “Emma, Vixen. Vixen, Emma. I was explaining to her that we’ve crossed paths before.”

The relief on Emma's face is palpable.

“Right, we’ve met,” she says. “Brandish is a lawyer, and she and my—"

“Parents, lawyers, same firm,” I cut her off. “I know. That’s boring. What’s interesting is if she was a weird kid before she got her powers. I’ve gotta know.”

That serves as an icebreaker, at least, but I strike out on mortifying stories from Glory Girl's past. If Emma did have any, she wasn't sharing them, probably to avoid embarrassing someone who could tear her limb from limb. Coward.

She's pleasant enough company though, introducing us to her friends and casually gossipping to pass the time. She’s better than Clockblocker at least, who eventually starts complaining about his arm getting sore holding up his Venetian mask.

“Isn’t it pretty lame for a superhero to have, like, no upper arm strength?” I ask, once I’m tired of him.

Of all my teammates, though, he’s always the one who’s most ready for me.

“Flex right now, Vixen,” he says. “I know there’s nothing there.”

“It’s been a month, give it time. You’re practically a veteran at this point though.”

“You could try to help him out instead of tearing him down,” Gallant says. I narrow my eyes at him.

“I’ll do it, bro,” Aegis says. Aegis approaches him from behind, grinning, and starts to ‘help’ in the least helpful way possible, taking off Clockblocker’s tie and using it as an ersatz cord to secure the mask in place. Clockblocker laughs as he’s being manhandled, although the way the mask pulls now looks more uncomfortable than before.

"All I’m saying is, Glory Girl hasn’t been bitching about hers.”

“She can also take breaks!” Clockblocker says, even though Aegis is still manhandling him. “It’s not like we don’t all know who she is already. It’s kind of her thing.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that when you chose not to wear one like mine,” I tell him.

Glory Girl smiles a bit at that. “To be fair, I also have super strength.”

That’s only partly true. I happen to know a few secrets about how her power works by now, enough that I'm confident it’s not really helping her with this much. I’m not going to out her power though. Instead I play along.

"And what an amazing power it is, keeping your mask in place like that,” I say, leaning in closer to her with a grin. “If I ever need help with manual labour—hefting my cell phone, moving pillows, whatever—I'll know just who to ask."

“Seriously, though, what’s taking so fucking long,” Clockblocker is still muttering. “Let’s do this stupid photoshoot and go home.”

“I know what’s taking so long,” Emma says quietly. Not all of us hear her speak, but I do. She’s smiling as I look over at her. “Who’s taking so long, I mean. Look over there.”

She tilts her head towards the middle distance. I follow the direction she’s indicating and squint over at the girl in question. Green and two of the costume department techs are diligently trying to make something work around one attendee’s back brace. Something's giving them serious trouble if they're still at it. Someone must’ve fucked up in the planning stages, because Green really doesn't strike me like the type to overlook something like this until the day of an event.

Brace corrects spinal scoliosis, lack of fine motor control; cerebral palsy.

I take a sip from my drink as I wonder why the girl got an invite. As I’d suspected, the taste is a bit bitter on my tongue. Sure, we’re telling an inspiring ‘anyone can be a hero story’ tonight, but in a crowd of athletic and pretty and popular people, she stands out. I think I would have felt pretty resentful about it if I were in her place.

"So why'd they even invite her, do you think?" Emma asks, once she realises she has the floor. She speaks up, not satisfied with holding less than our full attention. "They must have known something like this was going to happen. Is parading a token minority around really worth the trouble?"

I pause uncomfortably, mid-sip, as she gives voice to the thought.

"She’s very sweet, and seemed nice enough when I talked to her," Gallant says, finally trying to live up to his name. To my amusement Emma steamrolls right over him like she’s apparently been doing all night.

"If ‘being nice’ were the bar for getting an invite we'd have thousands of people packed in here like sardines," she says. “I bet you get really good at being nice when you need help wiping up your drool."

"Her disability is hardly her fault."

For someone who has superpowers, Gallant is kind of a limp noodle. He has good feelings and a lot of heart but zero conviction. Or brains, if he just lets Emma control the conversation like that. Hardly her fault. I have no idea what anyone could ever see in him.

"Of course it's not her fault," Emma says. “Do you think she wanted to be retarded?"

Sophia the Shadow Stalker rip-off snorts. "There are a few people who make me wonder about that."

"I mostly feel bad for her," Emma goes on with a false pity that carries a magnificent bit of venom, judged purely as another professional admirer of venom. "Can you imagine how awful this must be for her? Holding up half the superheroes in the city, knowing everyone here is watching you?"

"It does seem a little sad," her petite friend Madison says. She’s hesitant to speak up; out of Emma and her friends, she’s the only one who’s noticed Glory Girl glaring at them. If only her ability to read the room were accompanied by having a spine.

"Just awful," Emma repeats, shaking her head. She’s now projecting her voice so that it carries far enough across the room that the other girl can hear her. "Like, it's bad enough forcing her to go somewhere she doesn't fit in. Now they’re making her hold up the whole shoot and making everyone stare at her instead of sending her home already."

Unlike Gallant, Glory Girl does not lack conviction. I've been watching the pressure steadily build inside her this whole time. Now she explodes.

"Leave her alone,” she hisses. “This was such a nice night and you cunts are spoiling it. You disgust me."

Glory Girl is standing up straight, shoulders squared. She’s breathing hard. In heels she towers over all of us, tall enough that I bet she could comfortably rest her chin on the top of my head. She doesn’t look very cozy now as she sweeps a glare across the crowd that dares anyone to meet it. I do, and even though it's not really directed towards me I still wither under her disdain.

I hadn’t been impressed by Gallant’s feeble defense of the girl, but he did say something. The right thing to do would’ve been what Glory Girl had done, but while I'm great at talking to people I’ve never spoken up for them before.

I sip my drink. It’s still shit.

Had my brother been dealing with something like this? It's hard to imagine, but so is every other reason I came up with. All my leads have long since gone cold.

"We’re leaving,” Glory Girl says to our party, interrupting my train of thought. “Come on."

Then she’s off without another word, trailing people in her wake. She'd made her point. Most people didn’t feel like sticking around in the aftermath, leaving me in a small circle of people still lingering around Emma and her two friends. Glory Girl is so convinced I’ll follow her that she doesn’t even look back, but Gallant glances at me over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised before he turns away.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I’ll never know why my brother did it. I've come to accept that much at least, and now he's dead and I'm not. How do you apologise for that?

“So who pissed in her drink?” Sophia chuckles, utterly unbothered.

"I have no idea. Is she PMSing?” Emma asks. I open my eyes to stare at her. It’s so transparent that she’s trying to shore up her own position by putting Glory Girl down, but nobody here is calling her on it.

Guess I’ll have to. Maybe that'll be a start.

“She must be,” Sophia says. “We weren't saying anything that she wasn’t also thinking."

It's a pity how it's about to go down with Emma. For a little while I thought I could like her.

"We’re all here to dress up as heroes. I think Glory Girl thought you might try to act like one. You could at least pretend," I say, smiling beatifically at her. "Oh, I’m sorry, you were about to say how I’m proof not all heroes agreed with her. Sorry about that."

Emma pivots, upgrading me to being her main threat and gets ready to redirect the conversation against me. Her little clique draws away from me, forming a rough semicircle as they get ready to back her up. It doesn’t matter. I’m already looking each of them up and down, finding each of their weak points.

"The way she talked to us is disgraceful," she says, self-righteousness creeping into her tone to mask any anger or hurt or wounded ego. "Who the fuck died and made her king?"

"Yeah, before you know it she'll be making fun of girls with disabilities."

"She was—" Sophia starts before Emma cuts her off.

"You're one to talk. You've been hiding in her shadow the whole night. Here I thought that you were finally deciding not to be Glory Girl's lapdog."

It's a weak retort, rushed to prevent Sophia from speaking. A weak link there? It also gives away way more about her own insecurities than it actually hurts me. I don't start with her, though, instead scanning the peripheral members of the group. They're the easy ones to lever apart.

"Why are you trying so hard to dig your own grave here? Like, really, trying to take the moral high ground after shitting on a girl with cerebral palsy? Now you're wondering why people don’t like talking to you. Poor Maddy here looks like she wants to crawl into a hole to die of shame. The guys just want in your pants."

One boy, with very little self esteem and so very much to prove, starts to speak up. I cut him off.

“None of us were talking to you,” I tell him. “Can you, like, leave us alone? You’re weird.”

Headshot. Dead. I watch the life leave his eyes, knowing I’ve inflicted a psychic wound that will scar him for years.

In the meantime, Madison tries to close herself off, wilting a bit under the suspicious glares of her two friends. I’m so glad that she does, because it helps me to tighten my grip on my power.

“It sucks being the odd one out, doesn’t it?” I tell Madison, making sure to meet her eyes. “Emma invited Sophia before she invited you. Isn’t it so awkward when you have to third-wheel a couple?”

That gets a reaction, despite being a shot in the dark to keep up flow. Emma freezes for a moment, just long enough that she can't interrupt before Sophia hisses, "All that fucking noise and your big comeback is to call me a fucking dyke?"

“A couple of really good friends, I mean,” I say with a grin. “Oops.”

While Emma’s still speechless, I take a deliberate moment to look Sophia over. I hadn’t given her much thought so far tonight; she isn’t exactly the scintillating conversationalist that her bestie is.

Pads scuffed, utility belt arranged for practical access; signs of previous use.
Fabric shows mild discolouration; hydrogen peroxide used to remove bloodstains. Costume not provided by Shavonne Green, did not pass her approval process. Not part of the photoshoot. Costume brought from home.

Wait. There are plenty of ways someone might have ended up wearing clothing that's had bloodstains washed out, but it's still a little on the nose. Let's test a crazy hunch.

"You have really great taste in… friends,” I tell Sophia. “Way better than your fashion sense. Taking after Shadow Stalker? Great job. You two look so cute together, even though your costume looks almost as cheap as the real thing."

The reaction there is even stronger. Sophia looks like she's getting ready to swing at me, and Emma is suddenly very tense. She was mad about my malicious implications before, but now she’s actually scared. This time, I’ve found a weak point that might really matter. I figure out what’s going on here with my own common sense before my power fills in the obvious.

"Don’t ‘oops’ me, bitch, you knew what you were saying," Emma says, grabbing a hold of Sophia's metaphorical leash again. She's apparently reading the same signs off Sophia that I am, and it's making her talk faster than she can think. "You don't get to pretend you weren't calling her a dyke. Watch your fucking mouth."

I can see her trying to redirect the conversation. It’s too late. The damage is done. I already know too much.

“What did your cool new friend save you from, Emma?” I ask, ignoring her. She freezes again. I know, and now she knows that I know. “Embarrassing yourself? A bad first date?”

I'm definitely on to something. I can see it in the way she curls her lip, the way she sets her jaw. How Sophia herself is now looming protectively over her, not quite sure where to stand but needing to be close: a new friendship still finding its rhythm, but fiercely devoted nevertheless. The specifics don’t really matter. All of it feeds the light buzzing in my brain and I keep going before she can get a word in edgewise.

"That's the great thing about moving on to a new high school, isn't it? You can be who you’ve always wanted to be." Not quite right, but I’m in the ballpark. "No one knows what kind of dork you were, the mistakes you made—" colder "—or what losers you hung out with."

Blazing hot.

"New school, new friends, new you, a chance to finally get rid of everything holding you back." Holy fuck, that was an actual flinch. "Of course, they'll keep following close behind, never letting you forget for a moment. I'm sure you've figured that out by now. Do you want me to tell you how it's going to end? It won’t. There’s one loser you can never ditch—yourself. And you’re already so sick of being you, aren’t y–"

The crack isn't as loud as I would have expected. Still, the slap stings. Whatever stuff Green used to stick my mask to my face is amazing, it hasn’t even come loose. I massage my cheek, wishing I could stop smirking so hard because it's making it hurt worse.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," I say. Emma's staring at me, wide-eyed, as realisation settles in. Now she's afraid of consequences—she’s definitely never getting invited to another one of these parties—but I don't think anything could possibly satisfy me as much as the good clean fun of getting under her skin. "I hope that your evening is just lovely. Ciao."

I follow Glory Girl’s lead by having the last word as I turn and sashay my way towards her. I take the moment alone as I walk to revel in the feeling of Emma's outrage, watching her control slowly slip away until she physically lashed out at me. It was awesome. I need to do that again. Next time maybe her friend won’t be so stupid as to dress up as herself. It’s brazen, I have to give her that. Sophia must’ve thought she was oh so clever until she had the misfortune of crossing paths with me.

I only get a moment to savour my power trip, as Glory Girl hasn't gone far. The hall isn't that large and she's migrated over to hang out with Emma’s erstwhile victim. The girl is finally done being fitted. Now she's now looking a bit overwhelmed, surrounded by half the Wards and almost all of the New Wave kids and associated hangers-on.

"Did Emma Barnes just slap you?" Glory Girl asks me. She’s conflicted between being concerned and being happy to see me.

"I’m a little less succinct than you, but I think she liked what I had to say even less," I tell her. "Were you watching me?"

“Yes,” she says. Apparently she’s embarrasment-proof as well as bulletproof. She grabs ahold of my arm and pulls me to her side. I make a small squawk of protest, albeit a perfunctory one. I'm not sure if I'm ever going to get used to her physicality. “Now get over here and look at me. Unguarded strikes to the head are no joke. Stand over right here and look at the tip of my finger. Don’t move your head.”

Glory Girl is exactly an arms length apart from me, using her wingspan to gauge distance, as she lines up a finger right over the bridge of my nose. Her other hand just barely brushes the side of my neck. She starts drawing her fingertip in a smooth horizontal motion, back and forth.

"She was a little worried you weren't going to join us," Gallant says from the sidelines.

"Of course I was coming back," I say, my smirk returning. Even with Glory Girl fussing over me I’m still riding high on the exhilaration and adrenaline and power. "Couldn't stand the thought of being left alone with this crowd, Glory Girl?"

"That Nazi bitch doesn't deserve you over there," she says with a huff. “No, don’t look back. Please don’t focus on anything but my finger.”

“Hold on, Glory, what?” Clockblocker says, finally inserting himself into the conversation. “Repeat that?”

“Don’t be a child,” she warns him without looking. I smirk but obediently follow the motion of her fingertip as she swaps to vertical movement, up and down and up again. Then, apparently satisfied, Glory Girl says, “Reflexes seem normal, that’s a good start, what’s next, uh…”

“I don’t have a concussion,” I tell her, now that she’s done with her impromptu vision test. “Hearing, light sensitivity, emotional regulation: it’s all normal. Trust me, I’d know.”

"Vixen, what did you say to her?" Clockblocker asks. I try not to glare at his intrusion into the moment. He's… not a bad guy. He doesn't get under my skin the way that Gallant does, and he has more of a presence than Aegis, the boy who converted all of his personality into spare organs. He was just a bit… ick.

"That you were asking for her number. She said no, but I assured her that the rumours are totally baseless and you can barely even smell the growth anymore. That's when she slapped me."

"So you're telling me that she didn't say no," he says, hamming up the eager and expectant look.

Okay, maybe I appreciate his willingness to roll with it a bit. Even if I can't decide if I think he's a creep or not, he’s a good comedic foil. It works well enough at diffusing any further curiosity that no one thinks too hard about what I was really up to.

"Vixen, this is Kayla," Glory Girl says, once she’s convinced I don’t have a TBI. She directs me towards the girl that'd been at the center of this whole kerfuffle against her will. "We were just chatting. She's the valedictorian at Clarendon. This is her last week in the Bay before she heads to Stanford."

Well, damn.

"You look good,” I tell her. It’s not even a fib. “Green does amazing work."

It's obvious why this took so long, seeing the results up close. They weren't just trying to work around the brace or treat it as a problem. It’s been incorporated into her mech suit, with an exoskeleton frame and faux-armour plates built around it. The difficulties were with mechanical tolerance and getting it to fit together safely and comfortably. Everything got there in the end, though.

It's not hard to see the picture Green is painting: a smart and physically disabled girl triggers as a tinker, and she builds a powersuit out of her aid devices to help herself walk. It’s part of her, not something to hide or minimise. She would have stolen the show if this hadn't also been the debut of someone with genuine powers.

"Thanks. S-sorry to w-waste your time."

Stressors impair gross, fine motor coordination—

She was stewing even before Emma decided to speak up, and now she’s having trouble feeling normal again. So am I, to be fair, I need to calm the fuck down. My body isn’t accepting that fighty time is over now.

I sigh dramatically as cover for taking a long deep breath. "I blame Green. She does great work, but my costume prototype was basically done and she still made me stand in place for like another two hours while she got everything exactly right."

I get a round of groans and agreement. Clockblocker takes the chance to launch into a story of how his armour was supposed to get him girls or something. I'm sure—I hope—that it’ll turn out to be funny eventually.

I'm still plotting how to burst his bubble when I'm distracted by a soft, "Excuse me."

The words are meant to go almost entirely unnoticed. They’re softly-spoken enough that I'm very nearly the only person who hears. Kayla, Glory Girl and I turn to see Emma’s friend Madison hovering at the edge of our group, clutching her drink in front of her like a protective talisman. The drink’s colours still shine brightly under the ceiling lights but they've started blurring together, losing the sharp boundaries between the layers.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to…" She trails off and tries again. "I was with the girls who were being shitty to you. I'm… really sorry, for whatever that's worth."

"It's…" Kayla also trails off, realising that the ‘it's fine’ or whatever she was going to say is a lie. She must be tired of saying that.

After a moment Madison picks up the thought, but with more confidence this time. "It was fucked up, and I wish I'd spoken up, and I'm sorry I didn't. It shouldn't have just been Glory Girl and Gallant and Vixen. I wanted to at least say sorry, because… because that’s what a hero would do."

I nearly gag. Even Glory Girl’s expression warps for a moment, and she usually has a great poker face. It’s disgustingly saccharine. Kayla impresses me by not instantly yelling at her for sounding stupid and instead managing a "Thanks, I guess" before Madison is gone again. I watch her retreat to find somewhere to bleed off emotion or maybe just hide.

“She did not just do a M-Milly bit at me,” Kayla says.

We share a look.

"Remember, kids,” I say in a sing-song voice, “it's up to you to be the real heroes."

"Oh, f-fuck off," Kayla says, giving my arm a gentle shove.

I laugh, shaking my head. "Do I just come off as really punchable? Glory Girl keeps doing that too. Vista’s starting to copy her."

"You are extremely punchable, but who are we talking about?”

"Marvelous Milly," Kayla explains.

The look Glory Girl gives me is pure kicked puppy.

"You're kidding me," she says. "You were not a fan of Marvellous Milly."

"It’s unbelievable, right? I think they stopped doing those when I was eight or nine. The powers-that-be finally realised that no one over the age of four was actually excited for a fake heroine played by a policewoman in a cheap mask, or her badly-acted and cringe-inducing catchphrases."

“I can’t believe you ever even watched her,” Glory Girl says, shaking her head.

“Kayla, we’re jumping her. She’s making fun of our culture.”

“Leave Milly alone, I love her.”

“Yeah, see?”

Glory Girl is trying to look impassive, but really she’s trying not to laugh. "Maybe she’s less impressive when you do get to hang out with a cape and hear her catchphrases and the cape you're spending time with is—"

“Your mom, we know, we know your mom is a cape, Glory Girl.”

I laugh again and Kayla joins in this time. As does Gallant, who has at some point has forcibly wedged himself into my circle on a quest to spend time with Glory Girl. She welcomes him into the conversation before I can say something snippy, and my follow up snippiness is preempted by another new arrival.

"Vixen, I need to talk to you," Green says, and she isn’t shy about pulling me aside. "I want your side of the story before talking to anyone else."

"With Princess Slappy Bitchface over there?" I ask, my fingers going to the lingering sensation of heat on my cheek. "She attacked a government employee, isn’t that crazy? That’s gotta be a felony. I was a veritable saint, by the way."

Green arches an eyebrow at me. "Sounds like you heard a different question than the one I asked. I'm not usually in the business of assuming that the hero had it coming when someone assaults her."

"Not usually?" The look she gives me is not amused. "Fine. You heard that Glory Girl called her a cunt for what she said about Kayla, right? I stuck around afterwards to add that she's a two-bit mean girl whose dreams will come to dust. She didn't take it well. I didn't expect her to get physical. Do you want the blow-by-blow?"

Green shakes her head. "That's what I expected. I'll get someone to help you with some coverup and we'll deal with this before we need you for the shoot."

"And by ‘deal with this’, you mean ‘make sure that I spend half the shoot posing with my new best friend Emma’, right?"

"Girl, no, because I'm trying to get this party to simmer down."

"And what better way to do that than to put our resident troublemaker under the watchful eyes of the Bay's newest heroine?" I ask, batting my eyelashes.

I award myself points for trying, but I don’t get my way. After a few more questions I'm sent back to where my friends are waiting.

"What did Green want from you?" Clockblocker asks, pausing his engrossing tale for long enough to acknowledge that I vanished and have since come back.

"Just confirming the obvious. To be honest, I'm in a lot less trouble than I thought I'd be," I say. After a moment's consideration I add, "Or maybe I am, and the other shoe hasn't dropped yet."

Clock shakes his head, a comically tragic expression gracing his face. It must kill the dude to be in a featureless mask all the time, though maybe he likes how it gives him a perfect and easy deadpan?

"Take it from me, it always does," he says. "The suits have no sense of humour."

“That’s just you, though,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

A minute later, there’s a buzz against my leg. I pull my phone out from where I’ve stuffed it into the top of my boot. It’s an automated email, notifying me that Armsmaster has scheduled a meeting with me for 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.

“Ah, fuck.”

Notes:

I told you this one would be quicker, but the editing process went even faster than I expected.

I could write a whole essay about how my view that you can distill a lot of the emotional core of the first 20 arcs of Worm down to Taylor's relationship with Emma and Lisa. They're incredible foils to one another, and having them in the same room together is another one of those moments I've been waiting for. I could spend the rest of the story just having them spat.

That's even ignoring everything going on with Lisa herself. This is an important chapter, y'all. The next one too.

And I call her out every time, but ether did truly incredible work here. I'm very satisfied with how this hits home, and we have her to thank for that. She makes it shine.

(Just don't expect the next one to be so quick. It's like a quarter drafted, so it won't be another long gap, but this one was unusually fast.)

Chapter 10: Encryption 2.3

No one should ever be awake at 8 a.m. It's bad enough to be in class at that time, but at least during the school year I can zone out and trust I'm not missing anything important. Being called in for a work meeting is just insulting, especially when I was up until, like, three in the morning.

Nothing to be done about it though. I'm sitting on one of the many benches in Armsmaster's workshop, lazily kicking my feet and sipping hot black coffee from my thermos. I didn't start drinking it till after I'd run away from home, but I can't imagine how I would have gotten here on time without it. I'm trying to look more nonchalant than I feel, but I'm playing to the wrong crowd. Armsmaster doesn't so much as notice, and he wouldn't care even if he did. I appreciate my own effort, which is probably what counts, and at least kicking my legs like a kid on a swingset is getting me used to the weight of my new boots.

"If this is about last night, I didn’t do anything," I say.

He’s the one who summoned me here and yet he still looks annoyed that I’m disrupting his inner sanctum. He was still sanitising the place by the time I arrived, and I’ve been looking around at some of his halfway-stowed projects while I wait for him to focus on me. Anything he’s actually keeping secret would’ve already been locked away in one of the heavy metal storage trunks that take up the space below the work benches. I definitely resent him for making me show up to a meeting without even bothering to stop working on his gear. He’s less focused on me than on the way a flange in a glaive’s assembly isn't flanging the way it should.

"Your conduct is part of the reason for this meeting, although I hope to dispense with it quickly. Just as importantly, we were overdue for your first debrief."

Blech. I have not been looking forward to this.

"I'm seeing the shrink at nine. My contract says so. Will we have time before then?"

"I don’t expect this to take more than half an hour, barring any earth-shattering discoveries,” he says as he does something to warp the space around his weapon and tools in a way that makes my head hurt to watch. “Whether we run over time will be entirely up to you.”

After doing a few more things with esoteric tools that make my power very upset when I try to comprehend them, he finally puts down his doohicky and looks me in the eye.

"I understand that you don't see the value in public appearances, but not taking your debut seriously was a mistake."

And here we go. "I took it plenty seriously. Did you hear how I conducted myself? Vixen is a defender of the downtrodden, standing up to bullies everywhere. We've got so much to work with that our biggest problem will be deciding where to start."

"Shaping a narrative isn’t as simple as lighting a fuse and walking away. Defending your image is far more difficult—and more important for us—than destroying someone else’s. If you're under the impression that your enemies will let you smear them without fighting back, you are in for a very rude awakening."

I scoff. "They're going to have a great time spinning 'I'm a mean girl that makes fun of the disabled.' I'm sure that will go just perfectly for them."

"Even if you're correct, what will that accomplish for you? You’ve made a rich teenager look bad. That’s all. You have that as a consolation prize, but it won't come cheaply. They don't have to win to make sure that you lose. When you put your enemies into a situation where they no longer have to hold back, Vixen, they generally stop holding back."

"What can they do about it, complain to a newspaper about a catfight at a highschool photoshoot? Write a blog post? Sue me?" I pause. "If they sue me, I get to put Vixen on all my legal documents, right?"

"Yes, but you're missing the point. You will not be going to court because we are not allowing the situation to spiral any further out of control. Don’t take the press lightly either; Mr. Barnes wouldn’t even need to set foot in a courtroom to ruin your reputation. He could simply sell his story about a cape assaulting his daughter with powers to a tabloid. There’s a small but rich industry for anti-cape opinion pieces, and in the right circles they don't need to defend her actions if they succeed in tarring yours."

I narrow my eyes. "I remember us all agreeing that my power wasn't grounds for Assault with a Parahuman Ability."

It had taken a lot of work to get there. Doctor Steph and part of the PRT legal team spent a fair bit of time picking apart exactly what I was doing when I used my power before deciding in the end that there wasn't anything that could count as the direct connection or contact that would ground an assault claim. Even if my power enabled me to be a scoundrel—Steph's words, not mine, and I'm not at all jealous she got there first—the knavery I got up to was all me.

In other words, I literally cannot commit Assault with a Parahuman Ability. A lawyer said so, and that's awesome.

"Yes, and we stand by that. Testing it in court is another matter, and being in that position is itself a failure. We do not want your reputation as a new heroine to be one of legal disputes, especially ones that have the potential to cast you as a scheming mind-reader. It doesn't matter if the cases are thrown out in the end, people will still think of you and remember that scandal."

"Right, right, don’t get sued, it’ll be a pain in my ass,” I groan. I’d let myself forget for one awesome moment that I can still be charged with regular-style assault. “I’ve already spent more time in a courtroom in the last month than I ever wanted to in my life. I'll be careful. So what are we actually doing about this?"

"For the moment, we do nothing. You will have no contact with Miss Barnes, her family, or any legal representative they may employ. Worst case scenario, our legal office will propose a settlement that allows everyone to save face and walk away without public scandal."

I figured I'd just sit through his PR seminar, smile and nod, and then move on with my life. Now I actually feel offended.

"Offer to settle? Like, one where we make concessions to them so she can get rewarded for being an awful bitch?"

"I assure you that she will not be any happier with the outcome, regardless of how her family may benefit," Armsmaster says, fixing me with a calculating look.

"Benefit how?" I say, my voice tight.

"This is a relatively minor affair. They’d sign an NDA preventing them from speaking about the incident and would receive no more than ten thousand dollars. What they won’t receive is any formal admission or record of wrongdoing on your part. Miss Barnes will also be assigned approximately 50 hours of community service over the next year, and you’ll be able to expect a hand-written letter of apology from her as well."

"I'm the actual credentialed hero here, putting life and limb on the line—some day soon, at least—and two hundred dollars an hour is way more than I get paid," I say, the moment's irritation blossoming into full blown resentment at the thought.

"Then instead, think of how she will feel having to write a letter of apology that will pass muster."

“That’s true! I have an incredibly high bar for heartfelt apologies. She’s gotta really mean it. The experience might actually kill her.”

“Within reason.”

"Whatever," I say, wiping the momentary smirk off my face. "This is stupid and you're going to have everyone and their dog threatening lawsuits every time I open my mouth. And don't tell me I should keep my mouth shut. You're the one who keeps saying I need to be out there making a brand. I can't do that if I'm tiptoeing around everyone's feelings all the time."

"Are you done? We still have the matter of your debrief, and you’re the one who will have a problem if you miss your next appointment, not me."

I sigh. I must sound like I'm giving in, which I guess I am. There's not much I can do about this. The PRT is a machine, and I’m a very, very small cog in it. If it takes care of it in its own way then whatever, even if it’s a fucking stupid way. I hope they're only considering giving in here because they've worked themselves into a tizzy about my debut going off with a hitch.

"Sure, fine. So, debrief. Tell me what we’re doing. There’s no guidebook for once."

He takes a moment to set up a tape recorder and make the same introductory statement I've gotten used to whenever they start these. I take the time to centre myself, pushing away my irritation and reorganising my thoughts. This part of the meeting, at least, I’ve planned for.

"First of all, do you have anything you wish to disclose?"

"I'm actually not sure," I say, very carefully choosing my words here. I practically wrote out a script in advance to try and navigate this. I actually try to pay attention to the things my power picks up on around the PRT HQ. It’s a survival tactic. For something that was spelled out in my contract, my obligations here have turned out to be kinda vague in practise.

"I haven't read any files stamped classified or wandered into places I'm not supposed to be, obviously," I go on, "but how far beyond that does this go? Like, a couple days ago I figured out that one of the people that works in IT is having an affair. Is that something I have to be reporting? It's not confidential or classified, but it's definitely a risk, right?"

"Being involved in an affair is not actually against policy, as long as it's been reported to security," Armsmaster says, completely derailing my carefully thought out plans.

"Wait, hold on. That sounds like you're saying that we have an actual procedure in place for having a PRT-sanctioned sexual affair."

"More or less. It reduces the risk from an affair being used as blackmail material."

I shake my head. I guess I can sort of see the logic? “That's fucking weird. Is there a form for reporting one? Form SX-69, with special variant subform 69c if the affair is because you're deeply in the closet and cheating on your wife with a dude?"

"No, there’s no form. The person would report it to an appropriately designated security officer,” Armsmaster says. He’s not even smiling. Did he go to comedic foil school? This is so ridiculous. How is he keeping a straight face? “It's handled on a case-by-case basis. I’m sure that most people engaged in affairs don't report them at all."

I sigh, letting my heel bounce off the bench drawers. All right. So that is genuinely wild, but I can regroup. In fact, I can suddenly see a better way of making my point thanks to the unexpected detour.

"So do I have to report all this to an appropriate security officer? If we're willing to throw thousands of dollars away just so that I don’t gain a reputation as Kid Simurgh, I don't want to turn around and realise I’m Kid Stasi instead. Honestly, that seems worse. At least the Simurgh is cool and the subject of dramatic paintings, and not something that makes you think pathetic little rat."

He takes a good long moment of running his fingers through his beard before he finally renders his judgement.

"If you come across anything that is a clear danger or immediate threat we expect you to report it just the same as if you'd come across a suspicious package or someone acting in a manner that would trigger Master-Stranger protocols. We are not expecting you to act as a member of internal affairs, Vixen, though they’d certainly poach you if they could."

"Okay,” I say, mulling that over. I need to figure out exactly what the rules are before I can figure out how to bend them. “So… report the stuff that's actually classified, or anything that I should immediately call security for?"

"For the time being," he says. "We can revisit the subject once you're more established."

By which he means when they can trust me. Part of why they want these reports is so they know what the damage will be if I go rogue. They’re not ready to use me yet. Small blessings.

I cross my arms behind me, nestle my head against them as I lean back, and close my eyes. This will require me to make so many judgement calls. If any of my decision-making is ever reviewed, I’m sure my culpability or innocence in any situation will rest solely on how much the reviewer likes me. It’s such bullshit. I feel like I've been given a lot more flexibility for the moment, though. I'm definitely in the clear about the Amy situation.

"All right, well, then I've nothing to report."

He doesn't have many questions for me. Where have you been? What precautions have you been taking? How did you get so awesome at this so fast? Why is your hair amazing? It helps that I haven't been here long, my time's been pretty structured and monitored, and I’ve barely had cause to leave the building except for school. It's not like I've had that much opportunity to stick my nose where it shouldn't be yet. I'm sure I'll get there, but for the moment I'm reasonably sure that I’m right about being in the clear, so that's nice.

I’m eyeing the clock the entire time, once I deign to open my eyes again. That, at least, Armsmaster notices. He does me the favour of not wasting any more time. The rest of the questioning is pretty snappy. Finally, he says the words I’ve wanted to hear since I rolled out of bed forty minutes ago.

“That’s my final question,” he says, turning off his recording with a click and stowing it away. I’m already standing up, stretching, and heading for the door when he adds, “But there’s one final thing I wanted to share with you before you leave."

I barely resist the urge to groan. “Yeah?”

"We have identified a principal suspect in your kidnapping attempt."

I wasn’t expecting that at all. My mind is racing now; I switch gears as the memories come back, thinking about the sound of the man’s voice on the phone and the panic in my mind as my power dissolved into static.

"So who was it?"

"We currently believe that the men who attacked you did so under the orders of the villain Coil. Have your briefings covered him and his organisation yet?"

"Yeah, I've heard of him. He's some kind of scheming mastermind precog, right?" I say, seeing how delicately I can probe without being too openly curious about him and his power. “For a PRT briefing, there was an awful lot of… hearsay.”

“That is if anything too generous an assessment,” Armsmaster says. “I won't go so far as to call the kidnapping even a mixed blessing, but this incident is one of the first clues he’s given us in quite some time as to his potential motivations and goals.”

I nodded. Coil had come up when I looked into the Bay's cape scene a lifetime ago but there was scant little publicly-available info to go on. Some kind of Thinker tried to kidnap me, huh? It fits with everything I've figured out so far. If they've got the right guy, and if I'm right about what happened, then I hope the power interaction was as miserable an experience for him as it was for me.

"Our leading theory at the moment," he goes on, "is that he or someone in his organization has a powerful precognitive ability. That said, he portrays himself in ways that deliberately obscure the exact mechanism and limitations of his power. What we know for sure is that he's dangerous and his organisation punches well above its weight. I'm telling you about this, despite the fact that you’re not part of the investigation, because I want you to appreciate the threat that you've been under. We will be retaliating against him, and at that time, you will have the opportunity to assist with that operation. He has not made another attempt since you've joined the Wards, but don’t expect that he—or whoever the real culprit is—has lost interest in you."

"Trust me, I’m staying frosty out there. I'll stay out of trouble and call for backup at the first hint of danger, promise."

He nods gravely. "I'll keep you informed as appropriate."

It hits me that this is an olive branch of sorts. He wasn't just following protocol, because I gather that the protocol would be to tell me nothing at all. He’s telling me because he believes it’s appropriate, whatever that means. Is he trying to make me feel like I’m part of the team, in his own way? I’m not sure it works—it doesn’t make me feel much better about the target on my back—but at least I don’t need to figure this out entirely on my own.

I close my eyes as I tap my fingers against one of his workbenches. I'm apparently one step away from picking up the weird tics of the people around me—the motion reminds me of Steph tap-tapping her painted nails against every nearby surface.

"Soooo, I actually had something I wanted to mention too," I say, taking a step back towards him as I look over to catch his gaze—or visor. I hadn’t been planning on bringing this up so soon, but it would be a while before I got another chance. "Remember when you asked me how I drew the connection between Assault and Madcap?"

"I will remind you that anything relating to the identity of a Protectorate cape is most certainly classified and should be reported as soon as possible."

"You verified I wasn't lying when you asked about that earlier," I say, waving him off. I’m not sure if he realises what he’s just given away—another little detail about how his lie detector works. "Before you get any ideas, I gotta say that if I happened to walk by you out on the street out of costume, there’s almost no way I would pick you out as Armsmaster. I don’t actually walk around trying to figure out secret identities, it takes something very unusual and suspicious for me to start thinking this way, got it?"

I pause, looking over at him.

He's silent for a moment, then says, "Go on."

"But wouldn’t you know it, sometimes people just happen to behave suspiciously, and I'm right there to figure them out." I take a beat to let the anticipation build. "But I'm still building trust around here, and my power is… well, the kind of thing where it makes sense for me to go through security interviews like this. Plus, this is still only my first full day being public. I thought that if I learned something significant and sensitive, something that might potentially be a significant win for the Protectorate, maybe I should collaborate with someone who knows how to handle it properly."

Someone who really cares about his image and getting a share of whatever credit goes around.

"I am impressed by the maturity you’re showing, Vixen," he says, sounding only a little bit stilted. The corner of my mouth twitches as I suppress a smile at his failed attempt to ‘raise the youths right.’

"Mmmhm," I drawl. "There was another thing I wanted to bring up, though. It's silly, and I don't want to interrupt, but I keep meaning to get to it, and then I forget! I don't want to let it slip this time."

His expression is back to suspicious, but it's definitely got less of an edge this time. More calculating.

"So, my outfit's got fox ears, right? But they're basically for show, and that makes me very sad. I'd reeaally like them to be functional. I'm told you're top notch when it comes to wearable tech?"

I watch him relax. He is definitely deep into calculating now. Weird that he’s more comfortable in a transaction like this than talking to someone one-on-one.

"Once we've followed this lead of yours I’m sure I can free up some time to do you a favour."

Yesss, and there's the quid pro quo. I'd normally be concerned whether he’d hold up his end of the bargain, if he's not doing anything until he gets what he wants, but not here for once. He'll want in on what I’ve got, I know he will, just like he'll want in on whatever I get into next. He’ll keep his promise because he won’t want to alienate someone who’s ready to help him out.

Why didn't I join the Wards sooner? I am having so much fucking fun right now.

"Awesome." I clap my hands together. "So, Shadow Stalker is Sophia Hess. She's one of Emma Barnes' friends from the party last night. They go to school together at Winslow."

"You're sure of this?" Despite the question he doesn't doubt me for a second. It's more like he's trying to tamp down his expectations. She's not a headliner villain, but bringing in a violent vigilante is still a big deal. Troubled teens getting shunted off into rehabilitation programs probably make for great headlines.

Do I feel bad for selling this girl out? Absolutely not. After a bit of research last night, I'm pretty sure the deal she's gonna get with my help is going to be as lucky of a break as she could hope for. And I'll be ready to remind her just how lucky she is for my help every chance I get.

"Dead certain," I say, with a theatrical flip of my hair. "I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been trying to cause a fracture in their little clique. She was dumb enough to wear parts of her actual costume to the event, can you believe it? I guess she has balls, and it would have been hilarious to her if I hadn't been there to ruin it. There were peroxide stains and a lot of wear on the fabric, that made me suspicious, then after a few pokes she and Emma both freaked the fuck out."

I pause for a moment. The big worry here is that he'll be more careful in his questioning next time. The amount I’m supposed to disclose seems largely up to his discretion; revealing I know a lot more than I’m admitting to at first might make him want to look harder. That said, I don’t think a baseless hunch is good enough to buy a pair of tinkertech fox ears.

"Also, last night I broke into the Winslow High computer system." I fish out a thumb drive from my pocket, the fruits of my staying up till I was nearly falling asleep in my chair. "I did some snooping and found that she's got a shaky disciplinary record as well as a pattern of absences that overlaps neatly with Shadow Stalker's activity. There's a nurse's report to CPS from a few months back, when she showed up to school after missing three days of class with a nasty collection of injuries. Two black eyes, fractured distal radius, and a really weird burn on her forearm?"

I let the silence draw out as I know he'll catch on. It doesn't take him long.

"Beginning of May?"

"The first day she missed school was the day after Krieg got the drop on Stalker. E88 tried to lure her in and ambush her. Sure looks like they succeeded, based on that gory CPS report. Pity she couldn’t do more than put a few new holes in Krieg’s leg on the way out.”

"Your research and testimony will be more than enough to act, I believe," he says, taking the thumb drive from me. I can see him already planning how he's going to make this sting work. He pauses. "You would do well in future to get authorisation first before intruding into government computer systems, Vixen, or any private network for that matter. You'll be doing a remedial review of procedure while I work on your costume."

"Sure thing, chief," I say with a grin. I can guess just how much he’ll care about my adherence to procedure if I keep feeding him info like this.

I'm walking on the air as I leave, even as the adrenaline fades. I remember being bitter about being exploited to advance Armsmaster’s career. When it’s me exploiting someone else to further his career, well, that’s a very different story. And I’ll be getting cute glowing fox ears in the bargain. I'm getting the hang of this office politicking thing more and more every day, and the only thing that could make my morning better at this point would be if Assault showed up with breakfast.

"I like the boots," Assault says as he catches me by the elevator, gesturing towards them with a bag that smells suspiciously like fresh muffins. "You free for a bit?"

I fish out my phone to check the time. "I've got twenty-five minutes before my next appointment, but I won’t say no to food."

He raises his brow in an exaggerated way that makes it easy to see despite the visor. "Busy morning?"

I sigh dramatically. "First Armsmaster with a truly ungodly eight a.m. meeting—aren't we supposed to be the good guys?—then they're making me go to therapy."

"All that after missing breakfast? Let's get you fed first. Can’t get therapised while hangry."

He ushers me down to an unused conference room. Catered breakfast sandwiches are scattered between the remains of what looks like a bomb disposal demonstration. There’s still crumbs of food and weird little gizmos all over the table.

Assault’s bag of muffins draw my eye more than the demonstration bombs. I'm trying to save my power to defend myself in therapy, but I can't help but take a tiny peek. It's not a hard story to pick apart: too fresh to be storebought, lived as a bachelor, taught himself how to bake, now makes lunches for his wife.

That is disgustingly cute. One of these days I'm going to figure out that the guy is a secret murderer or wifebeater or something. The ‘nice guy’ persona can't really last, can it? He's already made it a lot longer than most, and that's starting to make me nervous. Even Victoria, a certified sweetheart, has more skeletons in her closet than he does. It does help her that the skeletons were Nazis so I don't really care but the point remains.

"I haven't seen you in like a week," I say. "Why now? What's the occasion?"

He finishes setting out our food in front of him and passes me a napkin. "Haven't had much of a chance to say hi. You've been really settling in and my work picked up. I did hear about your debut, though."

I groan through a bite of muffin, taking the moment while I swallow to affect a put-upon expression. "Not you too. I've had to sit through three different scoldings about that so far. It’s getting old."

"Nah, nothing like that, although I'm not surprised you've been getting an earful. First impressions and all that. I was talking to Shavonne about it, since I heard there was a bit of a mess. Based on everything she said I thought I'd check in to bring you breakfast and give you a high five."

He grins at my sceptical expression then raises his hand. I leave him hanging.

"Not gonna tell me I’m basically a villain already for using my powers on civilians?"

"Does that sound like me?” Assault asks. He affects a hurt look at the thought. “The way it looks from where I'm standing, you saw someone being shitty and did something about it."

I make the most unlady-like snort I can manage. "Glory Girl saw someone being shitty and did something about it. I only rubbed salt in the wound."

"I performed my first heroics in order to impress a girl," he says, nodding sagely. "Trust me, it's a great place to start. Have you given her a rude yet endearing nickname yet?"

He wiggles his fingers. I roll my eyes, cross my arms, and turn him into the most left-hanging person in history. I win eventually. He gives up on the high five and drops his arm.

"This isn’t like that at all," I say. "Seriously though, you don’t have anything pithy to say about great power and great responsibility?"

He shrugs. "If a kid gets attacked by some nasty dude and a girl shows up and completely kicks his ass, I'm not going to tell her afterwards how unfair it was for her to be the only one using kung fu."

"Even if she puts him in the hospital?" I ask as I butter up another muffin. It’s the best cornbread I think I’ve ever had. I think he’s trying to bribe me with food not to use my power against him. It’s working, and I have zero complaints about this development. He is genuinely talented at this.

"Then she's got some control to work on, and maybe I'll scold her for that." He puts down his food for a moment, giving me his undivided attention. "The last thing you need right now is someone telling you: no, don't be a hero that way. You're gonna stop listening after the don't be a hero part. That's what I'd do. So, be a hero, best as you can. Then when you fuck it up, figure out what you wanna change, then try again. You'll get there."

I hold his gaze for a moment before looking away and taking refuge in my breakfast. He didn't get much of that, either as Madcap or as Assault, did he.

Now he's… what? Trying to make up for his shitty past? To say to me what he wished others had said to him? I’ve overdone it with my power last night and this morning already, and my head hurts trying to push deeper into it.

Also, I don’t really care.

He has the decency to give me a minute to brood before he speaks again.

"So what else have the suits been bothering you with?"

I groan, taking the opportunity to let the tension out of me and slump dramatically to the table for a moment. Breakfast is making me feel better despite myself.

"I'm somehow busier with classes now after school's out. There’s whole books they're trying to cram into my brain: warrants, confidentiality, use of force, self-defence and it’s like, when am I ever going to use this in real life?"

He coughs as he fails not to laugh with a mouthful of food. Once he collects himself, he says, "The upside is, at the end of it, you'll be just as qualified to defend the public peace as anyone in the BBPD."

I look up at him through my eyebrows and messy hair. "That is the worst fucking thing anyone has said to me all week."

He grins and leans in close.

"Cops choose to pick up their badges and their guns. They can always put them back down. We can’t ever choose to stop having powers, Vixen, and we didn’t even choose to have ’em in the first place. You have powers. Sounds like you couldn’t stop using them if you tried. We’re not like cops because there’s no choice for us heroes but to buy into our own hype. Dress up in spandex or a power suit or cat ears, sure, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take it seriously."

He settles back into his seat with a wink. "At least you're all done with the sign up paperwork and legal nonsense?"

"Mostly. There's a sexual harassment training I'm supposed to take, but because I'm not eighteen I need my guardian to sign a waiver in order to take the class. I'm still a ward of the court, but the court says they can't sign that. I have no idea why, it makes no sense. They're figuring out how to get that done before the deadline passes, which is great, because I am going to start scratching and biting if I get dinged for not completing the required training they won't let me do."

"We’re watching Brazil for the next Protectorate movie night, then. They’ve asked you about nominating a guardian by now, right?"

"Yeah, I've got another…" I do some quick mental math. "Six weeks and change to figure it out. Shit, I'm halfway through."

"You've got Challenger to thank for that one. Speaking of running out of time, it’s five ‘til."

"Tell Challenger fuck you very much for me," I say in between wolfing down the rest of my cornbread.

“That’s one of many things you’ll learn not to say at work once you’ve completed that mandatory training.”

I sigh. I can’t argue that being handed the chance to nominate my own guardian is at least in theory better than foster care. Still, it’s such a heavy choice that I feel crushed under its weight. Actually having to solve my problems and choose a guardian who won’t suck deluxe is way harder than making some random foster family regret they'd ever met me.

Especially when that's probably what's going to happen with whichever guardian I nominate anyways. It'll just suck more when I’m actually forced to care.

I snag another muffin as I get up from my seat. "All right. Thanks for breakfast. Your baking is amazing and I don’t feel dead on my feet anymore."

"Just being a hero," he says. He gives me a lazy salute and as I walk away I watch him start to clean up the remains of breakfast.

Notes:

So this got split in half again. This was supposed to be the start to what will be the next (which as a result is like 70% drafted too), but was getting too long and too disconnected and so got cut off. And a good thing too, as I realised that this is not the intro to the next chapter, but the coda of a three-part Vice Versa mini-arc.

I like to think I'm a reasonably decent writer, and the wonderful job ether is doing editing these is, as always, making me steadily better. <3 But I've always been confident in my instincts when it comes to theme. The party needed a wrap up to hammer those home and here it is. Arc 1 was Lisa getting into the Wards; Arc 2/3 are her figuring out what she's supposed to be doing now that she's there.

Stay tuned, because next time Lisa goes to therapy.

Chapter 11: Encryption 2.4

Mrs. Yamada doesn't have an office, just a little therapy nook. That’s exactly how she signed her emails, too. She wants to be called Mrs. Yamada, Not Dr. Yamada, even though I know she has to be one. Getting to use a new and special title seems like most of the reason for getting a doctorate, but I don't have enough to go on from just the appointment scheduling to guess why she doesn't.

With enough prodding, I’m sure I can make the mystery unravel.

“Heya, Doc,” I say, as I lean around the open door to her room to take in the sights, such as they are. A shaded ceiling fixture casts a not-soft-enough light over the room. There's no desk, just a tiny end table next to her. Besides that, there’s a couch and a chair around a low glass coffee table. Its surface is clean and bare save for a small dish of toffees. She has no personal effects other than her notepad on a clipboard.

I expected that a lot of the PRT staff would be older than the capes, but apparently not. She's the same nebulous thirties-ish yuppie that an awful lot of employees around here seem to be, from the doctors to the suits to Armsmaster. She's dressed the part, pencil skirt and subtle makeup and everything, and she's got the same ‘attractive young professional woman’ vibe that Steph has going on. More emphasis on the professional, though, as she lacks her coworker’s flair, whimsy, and attention to detail.

"Good morning. Please have a seat," she says, standing to direct me towards the only open seat in the room.

Not much of a reaction—nothing that gives me any clues into her personality to latch onto right away. All I can do is confirm, now that I can clearly see both hands, that she’s not wearing a ring. She’s not married, never has been, and she’s never been engaged. The Mrs. is an affectation. Maybe that’s more casual to most of her clients, but the dishonesty of it bothers me.

I flop down on the couch into a casual half-recline. She definitely will appreciate the attitude more than Armsmaster will. It's literally her job. She’s not looking at the moment, though, instead referencing a familiar stack of dog-eared and crumpled forms attached to her clipboard. It’s the first part of the psych eval, homework I’d turned in yesterday before heading to my debut. I had to churn through a whole pile of questionnaires: a generic mental well-being test and then some more specific ones for eating disorders and anxiety. The last one felt like it's looking for psychopathy, and it started off extremely funny until I read is there anyone close to you whose death would upset you?

I spent a long time staring at those words, trying to figure out how to answer, my nails digging into my palm.

There's no way I ever would have written down not anymore, because I know to lie on doctor's forms. As I thought about it, I realised it wouldn't have been true anyway. Weird. I'd be pretty upset if Victoria died, and we're… close-ish? How should I describe a best friend of a month? I'm not sure how I'd rate the other people in my life, but I'd definitely be sad if Vista or Assault died. Even Amy and Dean are probably close enough that their deaths would mess me up, even if I wouldn’t exactly say that I like them.

My solution to the problem of grief and loss is to ignore it, to keep running so it can't catch up. So far that's been working fine, but every time something like this makes me think about my brother it gets harder. If Mrs. Doctor wants to make that harder for me, we’re going to have a problem.

Even if she doesn’t, this is still going to suck.

"What should I call you? I prefer real names to pseudonyms, but I understand if you would prefer the confidentiality of a codename."

Real names, huh? I stare off into space for a moment as I turn that thought over so I can look at it from every angle. She wants me to make a choice, so that she can divine something about my personality from what I pick.

“Lisa, Vixen, no strong preference,” I say.

She's clearly had practise keeping her emotions hidden, but not many of her clients get to cheat the way I do. There's the ghost of frustration with me there; my power confirms that she starts every session with a new patient this way, to broach the subject of identity. She thinks it’s crucial to understanding me. Even now she’s trying to put something together to make sense of the third option I took, but it’s not what she expected.

"Lisa, then. How are you today, Lisa?"

"Well, ‘Lisa’ is also a pseudonym, Doc,” I tell her. “Did they not give you my file before coming here, or…? I ask, tilting my head to one side, looking at her face from a new angle.

This is off to a great start. She’s on the back foot, which is just where I want her to be. I'm feeling much more confident about my chances of getting through this unscathed. So, I press my advantage.

"Actually, hold on, I'm kind of interested in this now. My parents didn’t name me Lisa, and they def did not name me Vixen. I picked them both. What makes one a codename and one real?"

The agitation is starting to crinkle the corners of her eyes. She really just wants to move on past this before we get bogged down. We have half an hour together, and she’s immediately sensed that I’m working to waste all of it.

“It sounds like you’ve been thinking a lot recently about these questions of identity, Lisa. Say more?”

“Nah, you know better than me, right? You have the degree. Why don’t you tell me about all the other capes you’ve seen? That seems more interesting.”

"That would violate professional ethics, as I believe you know. But, in very broad strokes, caped identities are masks in the metaphorical sense as well as the literal. A secret identity is a performance put on to separate Vixen, in this instance, from the rest of your self."

This is something she has feelings about, I can already tell. I wonder what she'd make of Victoria?

"And Lisa isn't? It's just as much of an alias, at least until I’ve sorted things out with the court. Well, if it's that important to you to use real names, go ahead. You've read my file. Go for it."

“I don’t use names for people that they’re obviously trying to leave in the past. I can infer a great deal about your feelings for your old given and family name, even if I know very little for certain. That’s part of why I’m here, Lisa. The better I know you, the better I can help you.”

“That’s not true, you know,” I tell her. “Getting to know people only makes them easier to hate. You see all their flaws. People say familiarity breeds contempt, right? Well, it’s true. Is there any therapist who doesn’t view their patients with contempt?”

I watch her, searching for the telltale signs of the sheriff going for her gun as our standoff drags on. Her face gives nothing away, but her body language… I see a tiny twitch in her right hand as she flexes and relaxes her fingers. It’s quicker than the blink of an eye, and it’s a tiny motion, but it’s a tell. She’s irritated with me, although I bet she wouldn't admit it even to herself in the privacy of her own thoughts.

“I think very highly of my colleagues, and I don’t believe any of them would treat their clients that way,” she says. I roll my eyes. “It's true that what people choose to discuss in therapy tends to be negative: unpleasant emotions, bad days, personal failings. Those can strain a personal relationship, which is why the relationship between a patient and client is professional, not personal. I’m here to offer you perspective, as well as support for dealing with stress. It’s a distinction that I’d be willing to speak more about, and it is important and relevant, but it sounds as though there’s more on your mind today than theory.”

I make a disappointed sound as I interrupt wherever she was going with that. Trying to bring the conversation back around to my feelings, no doubt.

"But this is so much fun,” I say, leaning back to kick my feet arrhythmically against the footboard of the couch. “Aren't we supposed to be exploring deep topics like relationships and identity while here?"

"How you see me as your therapist and how you see yourself are both important. We can and will address both, if you like," she says. "This morning, as this is your first session, we have some important things to talk about first."

I probably went a bit too hard there. When I sort-of play by the rules of the game, she’s forced to take what I say seriously. When I go out of bounds, she notices and figures out how to recover her balance. I'm going to blame the lack of sleep and maybe the incipient migraine aura. I really should have taken my meds before coming in.

"Aren't we supposed to, like, start by building a relationship and understanding and trust?" I ask. I’ve pushed myself up back into a sitting position, leaning my head against my hand and my elbow on my knee to support myself. In the meanwhile, I poke the dish on the table around with my free hand. It makes a horrible grating sound of rough glass on glass.

"Yes, and I think we can make progress on that. But I also have a responsibility to make certain that you're in a place where you're ready to start active work with the Wards."

I narrow my eyes at her. "Or what, you'll tell them I'm unfit for the service and that they should bench or expel me?"

I take a certain smug satisfaction at her distress, as well hidden as it is. First I bog her down refusing to even give myself a name, then being a boring pedant arguing definitions, and now I'm downright radiating hostility. This is not at all how she wanted this to go. Pointing out the elephant in the room, the power imbalance I'm sure she’s always tried desperately to ignore ever since she started working with the Wards, pushes this a step further.

There’s genuine discomfort there, and not just with me or how I’ve been a bag of weasels. She works for the government, that work pays her bills, but she has to balance their interests with the interests of her patients. Someone like Piggot wouldn’t let one therapist’s professional ethics stand between her and the cape team she needs. This eats at her.

"I do not have authority to do that," she says, very firmly. Doesn't want me to see her as an enemy to be outwitted. "And I wouldn't want to even if I could. I am here, first and foremost, to ensure your health and safety, the same as any of my other patients."

I'm reminded of some of the things Steph's said, but Yamada honestly feels a lot less sincere. Maybe it's that she's here because she thinks she’s capable of understanding me, where Steph is a harmless academic gloryhound who seems to tolerate my company.

"And the best way to check in on that is to, what, grill me about my family?" I ask, laser focused on her now, searching for any hint of everything she's keeping hidden.

"Would you like to talk about your family, Lisa?”

“Not really, Doc, if I’m being honest.”

“Well, if you feel ready at any time to speak, I’m ready to listen. Let’s change the subject. You've recently gone through a few big changes. I can imagine that school and social life—as well as your situation with the Wards—has given you a lot to think about. If you're willing, I’d like to ask a few questions about your personal life in the last few weeks."

I slouch back onto the couch, closing my eyes. It sounds like this will safely avoid any of the subjects I really don't want to talk about. It's not like I can get out of having to do this on the regular; I've already been called into the principal's office once today, and fighting too hard against this will only get me sent back.

"Sure, whatever," I say. I've already burned the first few minutes of the half hour we have together. I can even honestly say it wasn't just me looking to create problems.

"Thank you." she says, on a long exhale. I can tell how she looks without opening my eyes: her shoulders relax, she stops leaning in over her clipboard and adopts a more natural vertical posture. The tension leaves her at least a little. "What would you prefer to be called?"

"Vixen's fine," I say, looking over at her with eyes half-lidded to gauge her reaction to that. “Still trying to get used to the name.”

It's mostly to make her think about this every time she has to use it. I feel the light weight of my mask against my skin; I put it on before leaving my dorm this morning, and it’s so easy to forget that it’s there. She's back to neutral now, ready for me this time as she doesn't betray so much as a twitch.

The next few minutes are a lot of boilerplate. She tells me a bit about the homework she’ll be giving me and then runs down her list of stock opening questions. Our start was bad enough that she needs to break out the kid gloves to get the session to simmer down.

“How are you feeling today?”

Well, if she wants to waste our time as much as I do, that's fine by me.

“Bad, thanks, I didn’t sleep.”

“Worried about how your debut went yesterday? Excited?”

“No, just busy. I was at a work event until midnight,” I yawn, and decide to rest my eyes for a moment, looking up at the ceiling light through closed lids. It's only very technically true, leaving out my extracurriculars, but if she notices she doesn't say anything.

“Are you settling in well with your new teammates?”

“Vista’s great,” I say. It’s even the truth; how could I not like someone who so clearly wants my approval? “As for the boys, I’m suffering here, Doc. There’s no eye candy. Let’s run down the list: one, uptight. Two, boring. Three, annoying. Four, nerd. Five, uptight boring annoying nerd and taken. It’s not much to work with.”

“I find it interesting that you jump directly to their eligibility as romantic partners, as a descriptor.”

“What kind of school did you go to where that wasn't the first thing that came up about a boy?” I ask. It’s rhetorical, as I couldn’t actually give a crap. “Listen, Doc, I have it on good authority from the magazines that raised me that it’s all boys are good for.”

“No interest in friendship? Or, camaraderie, at least?”

“I think I can stand them as coworkers, but friends? That’s what other girls are for.”

I can hear Yamada making a few scratchy notes on her clipboard. I’m starting to relax. If this is the worst she can do, I might almost be able to use this time to catch up on lost sleep.

Then she douses me with a splash of metaphorical cold water.

“Vixen, I’d like to ask why you decided to join the Wards.”

I open my eyes to glare at her, my lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t act dumb. I know you know everything about me that the PRT does. It was mainly to avoid getting kidnapped, which I felt would inconvenience me, cramp my style, keep me from getting my beauty sleep. That kinda thing.”

“The impression I have of you is of a fiercely independent young woman who was able to survive on the streets with just her wits.”

“Yeah, being homeless was an awesome coping strategy, and I looked great doing it, too. Make sure to write that down.”

She is writing something down but I bet it's not that.

“What I’ve gathered, since the start of this session, is that you treat the institution of the PRT as an inconvenience at best and an enemy at worst. You chose to join the Wards regardless, when I’m sure any hero on the team would have gladly escorted you safely to the next city over if you’d asked them for help.”

Gladly is pushing it, and there's no way Armsmaster would have just let me vanish, but she's not entirely wrong. Assault promised as much and a whole lot more, even if he was very clear that he thought it was a terrible idea. It still sticks out in my memory, more than almost anything else from that day.

"That sounds like a trap. You think I’m a weepy little girl, or that I'm too stupid to notice that I’m scared, but I really haven’t lost any sleep over this. I want revenge, and that’s it."

"I don’t think you’re stupid at all, Vixen. On the contrary, in my experience smart people have a very easy time convincing themselves of the things that they want to believe."

I sigh at the obvious flattery, but I don't keep pressing. I shift in my seat and run my fingers along the edge of the arm. I glance around for a clock but I can't find one. I would have to move in order to dig my phone out of my back pocket, and I’m too lazy to bother.

Just by asking the question, my power provides me the answer. I wince. We’re less than fifteen minutes in.

"All right, I'll play along,” I tell her. I pause for a moment, rubbing my ear as I think back on anecdotes I can waste our time with. "Did you know that wasn’t my first time being held at gunpoint?"

Of course she doesn’t, seeing as I've never told anyone before. It gets the reaction I want. She shifts forward in her chair and raises her eyebrows.

"I can see you thinking, oh no, she must be repressing some awful trauma! I'm not. It was so dumb—who tries to rob a broke homeless girl?" I pause for half a heartbeat, but she doesn't interrupt. "And you know how it felt? Amazing, during and after. The world finally made sense. All the nastiness I’d lived with for years was laid bare in a moment: just how cruel and stupid everyone we share the world with really is. It still beat staying home around people smiling in my face while they tell me how much of a fucking disappointment I was."

And dammit, she’s writing an essay on her clipboard.

“Don’t write that down, that’s hyperbole. My point is, sitting around and chasing my own tail sucked. Everything only got better after leaving that all behind. I didn’t have to pretend to be helpless anymore. No one could stop him from pulling the trigger and killing me right there on the spot, but I was still stronger than him. All the things that made him feel real tough, all that bluster and bravado, it just let me inside his head. I walked away with his money in the end. It was like three bucks, but it’s the principle of the thing, you know?"

I let out a shaky breath, tilting my head back and closing my eyes again. My hands are tingling as I rub my fingers against the arm of the sofa. It was a little reminiscent of dealing with Emma last night, now that I think about it: the same giddy rush from escaping danger unscathed. Almost unscathed, I guess, but the slap was a small price to pay for putting a cherry on top of the win. It made it feel more real.

"What was different about your experience in Brockton Bay?" she asks. I lift my head, opening my eyes to look over at her.

"What?"

"It sounds to me like being threatened and getting away safely taught you that you could handle yourself. What about this time made you feel like you needed to seek shelter with the PRT?"

"Well, messing with a lone moron with a gun is a bit different than dealing with a private army run by a supervillain."

"Is it? Say more."

I knit my eyebrows together into a frown and tilt my head as I look at her again.

"That's not a trick question," she says. "Was it a difference in degree, or in kind? As in, was it as simple as being overwhelmed by numbers, or was something about the experience that was fundamentally different?"

"They were a lot more persistent, and they didn’t really let me get a word in edgewise. A bit of both, I guess?" I say with a shrug as I shift around on my cushion. I prepare my power to analyse her response. "Did they tell you all about how I signed up?"

"Some of it, about the general facts of the case. Nothing sensitive."

I let out a sigh. "At least I won’t have to explain anything twice. Yeah, so I only ever actually saw them three times over the better part of a week. The only time they actually pulled the trigger happened to be when Assault showed up.”

“Looking back, do you think you could’ve evaded them in the end, as you did the previous two times?"

“It wasn't nearly so dire either of those other times, but maybe? It would’ve taken them a while to haul me back to whatever basement they were going to lock me in, so I still had a chance. I've gone over it a dozen times in my head, and even with all the tricks I’ve learned in the last month I still don’t know for sure if it’d be enough. It’s more frustrating that I haven’t found a sure solution yet than anything else.”

It’s strange. I can feel the tension in my shoulders and the tingling in my hands. My nails dig into the flesh of my palms. My breath sounds shaky as I exhale. I've spent long hours trying to find the out that I'd missed at the time, and I've never reacted like this.

"I guess you're right. It’s not that different. Don't get me wrong, tear gas fucking sucks, and I still sometimes hear ringing in my ears. But at least while they were attacking me I could see them. I didn’t have to just… wait. That’s the worst part, waiting around for something bad to happen, y'know?"

I look over at her. There’s something about her that’s off, just for a moment. She’s held the same soft focused gaze on me throughout the session, but now she drops it. She tenses up, and her eyes drift away from me for a moment as she studies a corner of the room.

“Oh,” I murmur. “You do know. When’d that happen, high school? College? College then, and it was someone you knew? Right. Hearing them nearby when you were heading home alone, matching your pace at night? Boyfriend? Or, rather, soon-to-be-ex boyfriend, knowing he’d been in your private space, that you’d never be able to trust that you’re really alone—”

“At this point I feel you’ve crossed a line, Vixen,” Yamada says, and I grin. I’ve rattled her—finally—because she looks like she's grabbed a live wire. The details are small, and most people would miss them, but I’m not most people; every inch of her is taut, on edge. “This is inappropriate.”

“Yeah, we can be done now,” I say. “We understand each other. I don’t like people poking around in my head either.”

I leave it at that. I already got what I wanted anyway. Poking at her bad memories is weirdly comforting. It makes me feel a little less like a specimen that she's pinned to a card and held under a microscope. The tension in my hands finally eases as I watch her figure out how to recentre herself.

To her credit, it only takes a moment.

“It's a very common experience for women and girls,” she sighs. By the time of her next inhale, it’s like nothing ever happened. “Although not usually as extreme as yours."

She’s still trying to maintain a professional distance, as though we haven’t both agreed that it doesn’t work with me. At least now that I have control of the conversation I don’t mind talking just to fill the awkward silence.

"I don’t feel like I’m sleeping or eating better than when I was homeless, Doc. I don’t feel more calm. I’m on edge all the time, jumping at shadows. Every part of it makes the rest worse." I suck in a shallow breath and let it out slowly. "You'd think a superpower that lets you know everything would help, but once I start looking for threats around every corner it's more than happy to tell me that they’re there."

Her pen's working again. I can hear it scratching against the notepad.

"Your power wasn’t just giving counterproductive answers?" she asks. “It was asking counterproductive questions?”

"Yes and no? They were…" I run a hand through my hair, scowling. A horrible thought occurs to me, and I ask, “Who do you show your notes to? What do you relay to the suits?”

“No one, and nothing,” she says, in a tone that’s meant to sound reassuring. It isn’t.

“Where do you keep your notes between sessions?” I ask, my power ready to pick her apart.

“I can’t answer that, I’m afraid.” But she has answered that: in her bag or filing cabinet at home, depending on what clients she’s seeing. It's locked up tight, but when it comes to the people I'm concerned about they may as well be unsecured.

Yamada, thank fuck, gives me a moment to think in silence. After a minute of letting me wonder about what role I wanted to play for my audience, she prods again, "Were the pieces of data your power offered wrong, in some way? They didn't line up with what you were seeing?"

"No, it's been wrong before, or misleading. I know how to deal when it goes astray, and it wasn't like that. It was just…"

I screw my eyes tight shut and trail off. This was going to suck. I had to tell at least a little bit of the truth here, to make this real. I can still feel deep in my bones how the flow of information twisted in on itself, like different voices were trying to shout over each other. He's going to a birthday party— no no no, he's coming to see his nephew after you and he's going to keep finding you and he's really late now and worried his sister will be mad and nowhere is safe.

The pepper spray had been a relief in comparison.

"It's never… never lied to me before," I say, nearly choking on the words as my throat tightens. The words feel wrong. Well, they are, it was really more that I was given two different conflicting truths… but it’s painfully close to the reality.

There's a pause, then Yamada asks, "In what sense did it lie to you?"

"It wasn't just a bad tangent, or that I was starved for information. It gave me bullshit that I knew was wrong." I swallow, taking a few deep breaths as I keep my eyes squeezed shut. "Made me feel like I was the one going crazy."

"You couldn't trust it anymore," she says, finishing a thought that I never could. “You couldn’t trust yourself, in a sense.”

The tingles in my hands spread over the rest of me, leaving my skin crawling in their wake. My chest is tight and my heart is racing far faster than after I'd simply been slapped. I roll myself up back up into a sitting position, staring at my hands. I should stop talking, I’ve said enough already, I need to shut the hell up, but there's a disconnect somewhere between my better judgement and my tongue.

"I'll get on a bus and check out the other passengers and I keep thinking, everything seems fine, but what if it's lying again? I can't stop thinking about it."

I know that hasn’t happened. I'd spot the signs in an instant now. And still…

Yamada passes me a tissue. I take it just to crumple it up in my fist, but then I turn away and refuse to look at her for a moment.

"It can take a long time and a lot of work to feel safe, after a prolonged exposure to severe stress,” she says, gently, in a tone that should piss me off. I’m too tired now to care. “What’s important to know is that you can feel safe again."

I'm pretty sure I don't believe that. I don't even know if my power makes ‘healing’ or whatever harder for me, the way it makes the paranoia worse. I finish crumpling up the tissue and toss it onto the table, and I watch it float down and bounce off of the toffee dish, feeling impossibly tired all of a sudden. Most of the tension I’ve carried in my body the last few minutes has relaxed, I’ve probably said all I need to, but I…

Now I need to be alone.

"But at least, gee, I guess I've made a lot of progress today, right Doc?" I say. The words don’t ring as grouchy and sarcastic as I’d like, my exhaustion deadening the affect. “Sure does give you a lot of ammunition for next time.”

Yamada suddenly looks like she’s broken a tooth. The expression on her face makes my adrenaline spike up to new heights, and I can actually feel my heart pulsing against my sternum. She looks worse by far than she had when I’d been probing directly into her unpleasant past.

"What?" I say, my voice very level, every word crisp. "I've got a terminal case of paranoid bitch disorder and I'm not going to make it to the next appointment?"

"You weren't told that rotation happens in two weeks?"

I close my eyes. I can feel the tension all the way along my jaw and into my scalp, as fascia clumps in ways that make my hair tighten painfully against the scrunchie keeping my ponytail in place.

"Rotation?"

"There's a regular rotation of mental healthcare staff within a region,” Yamada admits. It sounds actually painful to her to say. Good. “The fact that we don't stay with any one patient for too long is a feature, not a bug. The PRT doesn't want any individual therapist to gain undue influence over any individual cape. The rotation makes strong personal bonds impossible, and lets my colleagues and I act as oversight for one another."

Blood is still hammering in my ears but I can barely hear it over my power. The awful light is nearly blinding as I stare upwards into its heart, burning away any coherent thought.

Policy established to—
—disclosure waiver signed—
Monthly—

I bite my tongue hard enough to taste metal. "So you’re getting run out of town on a rail, and I'm gonna have to let a whole fucking parade of you clowns into my head?"

"Vixen—"

I jerk upright and glare at her, eyes wide and wild. "And you're just fucking okay with this? 'The PRT doesn't want—' The PRT requires me to be here, supposedly for my own fucking benefit, then makes absolutely certain it can't do me any fucking good?"

I'm breathing fast shallow breaths, nails biting into my palm. I don't even care if therapy does me any good. I’d happily skip it entirely. But the thought of going through this again and again and again, every two weeks, for at least the next two years and change?

It’s an insult. It’s a betrayal.

"It's not my place to question PRT policy here," she says. She’s not fucking okay with this, it turns out, but all she can do is use the PRT as an excuse like that actually matters.

"Because you only exist because the Youth Guard sued the PRT for not providing healthcare to children. They don’t give a shit about me or you! What was your first responsibility here again? They’d fire you if they could, if they didn’t need you to protect their reputation. Right, I remember. I’m glad that’s good enough to help you sleep at night."

She looks like I physically struck her, by far the biggest overt reaction I've ever gotten from her. Her discomfort and regret intensify to shame as I watch.

I don't need more than that to twist the knife. She probably says something in response, but I'm not listening anymore.

---

Yamada was right about one thing: she isn't the one I should be going after about this dumpster fire.

I burst through the door into Piggot's office. The director's attention snaps up to me, her entire body tensing.

Combat reflex: reaching for firearm.

She doesn't relax when she recognises me, although she's no longer going for her gun. Her eyes were open wide, pupils dilated as she reacted to the potential threat, but now they narrow. "Vixen. What are you doing here?"

I had braced myself to get yelled at, but she's merely on edge, her expression tightly controlled. This isn't the first time a cape has burst through her door in an emergency.

"I just discovered how our so-called mental health services work around here," I say, carefully enunciating each word I spit at her. "Which braindead suit thought that the shrink carousel was a good idea?"

Only now does she relax, the tension replaced by an expression of irritation that was closer to what I’d expected when I kicked down the door.

"You signed a medical history disclosure that explained this. You signed on the line that confirmed you’d read, understood, and agreed to every clause."

"You know what else I've signed amongst in the hundreds of pages of documentation you've been shoving down my throat? An acknowledgement that I have read and understood the procedural guidelines for how to file for travel expense reimbursement while driving my own vehicle, which I cannot legally do. If you're going to make everything into a pointless slog, then maybe someone should have—I don't know—pointed out the parts that are kind of important!"

I've crossed the room by now and planted my hands on her desk leaning forward over her computer and paperwork to hiss at her. "And then you go and feed me some bullshit that it's because you don't want a therapist to influence me? I could go get my own, you know. You also want to ban me from having friends? They sure as hell could influence me. Shit, one could influence me to join a team of vigilantes! Wouldn’t that be scary? Maybe she could hold me back from lighting this entire goddamn building on fire."

I lean in close, my eyes narrow as I make sure that I invade her personal space.

“The only reason," I hiss, "for you to care if my therapist has some kind of influence over me—or vice-versa—is if you gave that therapist the power to make decisions about whether or not I’m willing or able to comply."

She doesn't so much as flinch. Her voice is just as tight as her posture. "Sounds like you've got this all figured out. So tell me, why shouldn’t I be assessing your mental state, Vixen?"

"You could have set up an annual psych review board alongside the therapist!" I snap. "Did that just not occur to anyone in the entire goddamn PRT, or was it shot down because we were below our fuckup quota and we had to push those numbers up?"

"You are not in a position to be arguing policy, Vixen," she snaps, her temper starting to fray. I'm surprised it took this long. "And I am certainly not your personal complaints department."

"Yeah, when the facts are against you, start arguing procedure," I say, my lip curling upwards. "If you're going to give me a minder I'll promise not to break her, but don't go pretending she's a therapist."

Piggot is all but rising out of her chair, her tone ice cold. Her fury focuses her, makes her hold back rather than lash out. It's a dangerous kind of anger. "Vixen—"

"Yeah, I'm out of line, I get it," I say, withdrawing from her desk and standing up straight again. I've made my point. I'm already feeling significantly more self-righteous, which is as close to feeling better that I'm going to get. "Next time I'll make this an email that you can ignore. 'Vixen, you are dismissed.' Tell me when you've decided how to make my insubordination into a teachable moment."

I turn on my heel, stalking back towards the open door. Everything about this is just so fucking stupid. It's not even the normal kind of stupid I'm getting used to, but actually grossly and maliciously incompetent. I'm almost out of the room when Piggot's voice makes me pause.

"Vixen, wait for a minute."

I am sorely tempted to leave anyway and slam the door behind me for good measure. I bet it would feel amazing, letting all that tension unravel in a loud bang right in her face. By now, the adrenaline's starting to fade, for probably the fourth time today. I just don't have the energy left.

Besides, she is my boss, and I'm already in hot water.

I turn around, my hand on the door handle. She's back to slouching in her chair, watching me. It's barely been a few seconds but all that cold fury has already drained away. I don't think I've ever seen her quite like this before, not even in those first moments I was blabbing all her secrets to the world. All that's left is this detached, clinical coolness that reminds me that she's killed people before. The tingles are back, crawling over my shoulders and up my neck.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Close it.”

Something about her tone makes me obey. Reaching for my power helps me understand why: she’s not mad anymore, she’s scared.

“What I am about to say doesn’t leave this room. Do you understand?"

"Whatever happened to no secrets in the PRT?"

The last embers of my own righteous anger gutter out, leaving behind a sense of unease. This is not the way anyone should react to that level of insubordination, let alone Piggot. I feel suddenly like there's a third person in the room just out of sight, watching me. I’m not looking at Piggot anymore. I’m looking at the security camera in the corner of the room that’s aimed at us both. Behind it is only the uncaring steel-glass skyline of the city and the morning sun glinting off the surface of the bay.

"We do not live in a perfect world," she says. She's almost completely still, like a viper watching its prey. "I need your silence, after verbal confirmation that you understand me."

Verbal confirmation only—no documentation. Topic well understood: conversation planned in advance. Sudden change in attitude: found opportunity to speak without leaving record of a meeting.

She's been looking to talk for a while, then. The reason she wasn’t lighting me up for storming through her door was because I gave her the perfect chance to do just that without having to make any move herself. Viper was the right metaphor, that is cold-fucking-blooded.

"Yeah, I understand," I say. My mouth is dry.

Piggot doesn’t speak again. Instead she turns over the spreadsheet she’d been reading over, grabs a black marker, and begins to scrawl big letters on the blank back of the page. I note that she twirls in her chair just enough so that whatever she writes would be out of sight of the camera. She knows how not to tip her hand. Then she carefully turns the paper around and holds it up for me to read.

 In this building, assume that others are listening.

I nod. She flips the paper over, incriminating letters face-down. She starts speaking in gibberish, and I realize that the random letters and numbers are just intended to fill dead air and make it look like a normal conversation for the camera. She rattles off the box scores for last night’s ballgames over the sound of ink on paper. I can’t breathe.

 Be wary of internal affairs and of Commander Thomas Calvert.
 He is a talented man with an impeccable record.

Piggot’s holding my gaze locked in place. I notice the lie immediately, because it’s what I do, where she lies without lying at all. She's feeding my power everything it needs to put together what she really means: a man who has an impeccable record, but who shouldn’t.

Deliberate doublespeak to trigger power usage—believes official records have been falsified to cover up criminal misconduct. Lack of record, direct discussion only: high level corruption and coverup.

 He oversaw an investigation into the activities of an unidentified Thinker. This led him to your natal family before the trail ran cold.

He’s the one who’s hunting me. Piggot figured it out, and now she’s sharing it with me instead of doing anything about it. The only reason for that is because she can’t.

“Okay,” I say, for the benefit of the camera. I have to talk over her as she rattles off the pitches that led to a Red Sox pitcher getting a crucial strikeout in the bottom of the ninth. As she holds up the next paper, my vision is getting dark around the corners.

 He will be in touch with you soon in order to conclude his investigation. Then he will seek your assistance with other assignments.

“So, uh, I have these security briefings?” I say. Hopefully I only sound a little bit hysterical. “What should I say if any of this comes up?”

Piggot takes an uncomfortably long moment to think that over before scrawling, Tell him I said to take this up with me, in private.

I take a deep breath and nod. The only thing piling up faster than new rules is exceptions to those rules. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any happier. My head is spinning as I ask, "So I guess I should be expecting a call?"

 I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet. He hasn’t submitted the relevant paperwork to me.

I have to suppress a sudden and manic urge to laugh. She's obstructing another PRT operative by throwing paperwork in his way? Maybe there is still a tiny shred of justice in the world.

 I expect you to comply with his authority and do exactly what he asks of you. Do I make myself clear?

"As fucking crystal," I say in a breathy exhale. I never thought it would be Piggot of all people to encourage me to be a maliciously compliant little gremlin. But the world’s been turned on its head, and here we are.

She nabs one last piece of paper and holds it off at an odd angle that blocks one half of her desk from view of the camera. Then she withdraws something from a cabinet—a cassette tape of all things—and places it down in front of her. It’s the same kind that Armsmaster had used this morning, but unmarked except for a scrawl of Sharpie that I can’t quite read from here. She doesn't explain, just looks at me expectantly as if to say, You're a smart girl, Vixen, figure it out.

I finally let go of the door handle, walking back so I can demonstrate a bit of sleight of hand. In one motion I nab the paper from her hand in a way that lets me sweep the tape off the desk without it ever becoming visible to anyone watching at home. As the weight of it enters my hand, my stomach twists and I feel a little bit sick.

I know what this must be. It’s illegal for it to exist, or she wouldn’t go to the trouble to hide it. It's a secret recording she made of a conversation with Calvert.

I should be delighted, crowing internally that she just handed me the kind of blackmail material I could use to end her career. Maybe it's just the day I've had—up and down and up again and emotionally exhausting and it's not even noon yet—but I don't feel triumphant at all.

I just feel worn out and brittle and scared.

"All right, thanks for the heads up, boss," I say, giving her the most confident smile I can muster, as though we hadn't just been at each other's throats a moment ago. I slip the paper-wrapped tape into the back pocket of my jeans. "I'll do everything I can to make sure he gets what he deserves."

"See that you do," she says. Her voice sounds tired from speaking in gibberish. When she finally falls silent, she looks at me with an expression that I can't read. For once, I don't try to dig any deeper.

Piggot hauls herself to her feet with a cane in one hand and the stack of papers in the other. She makes her laborious way over to the corner of the room and feeds each sheet one by one into a shredder. Over the high steel whine of our conversation being torn to illegible bits, I hear her add in a low voice, "Be careful out there, Vixen."

Notes:

I wanted to break this into two as well, but there was no clean breakpoint. ether did her best, and she did as always stunningly good work here, but sometimes I'm just long. Still super fun writing Lisa getting along with people. I really like teenaged protagonists. Their emotions are so big and they have zero idea how to handle that bigness.

There's a lot going on here, but I wanted to bring up one thing. I stated somewhere, I think in a comment in ch1, that I was of the opinion that it would take a lot to get Lisa to join the Wards. She does not like authority figures or feeling trapped, and we know her response to that kind of pressure is to run. There needs to be something to push back against that, like Coil did in canon, and even then she was scheming from day one. What could get her on the Wards giving them an honest try?

(At least insofar as sticking around. Honest might be pushing it...)

Here's the answer I came up with. (Well, this and Victoria.) I know the way she was alienated from her power in the first chapter felt weird to some people, and it was kind of supposed to, because... *gestures at everything above*

In a lot of ways Vixen is having a much better time of it than Tattletale did: more support and friends and a lot less nearly being Coil's pet. But Tt never once really doubted her ability to survive on the strength of her power and her wits, and for her those were always one and the same.

Also, as terrible as Lisa is as a therapy patient, Amy was worse. So much worse.

Chapter 12: Encryption 2.5

The summer sun is starting to set on my first night out in costume when Gallant decides that he’s got some fight left in him.

“Nice ride,” he says, gesturing at the vehicle behind me.

I lean up against it, giving my hair a casual flick to catch the dying sunlight as I try to play it off. “Hot girl riding a motorcycle, yeah, it’s pretty awesome. You got a problem with that?”

“I wouldn't if that's what you were doing. You’re not really riding the bike, are you? You’re being carried along.” I wince. He grins at my expense, although I only notice because of the tone of his voice and how he’s standing. His face is fully hidden behind his techy visor. “I should take a picture for later, to show to Victoria. Don’t you think she’d get a kick out of it?”

I’ve been really trying hard not to think about how dopey I’m going to look in Armsmaster’s sidecar. My only option is to launch a counteroffensive.

“Go for it,” I say, pulling a tape recorder from my utility belt. “We can accompany it with your screams of terror.”

His wilts, the self-satisfaction draining out of his body language. “The way Challenger drives should be illegal.”

I'm pretty sure it already is, but no one seems interested in stopping her.

“You wish you were in the sidecar so badly, don’t you.” He won’t agree out loud, but I’ve driven his mood back to glum, which is where I prefer him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. The funniest part is we can’t trade even if we want to. Say hi to the cool biker lady for me.”

Our sniping gets cut short before I can extend my victory lap. Armsaster calls out to the crowd, giving the assembled Protectorate and Ward capes the one minute warning. Gallant stalks off to join his assigned mentor for the evening, and once he reaches Challenger’s side she claps him on the back so hard it nearly levels him. I snicker as I hop into the horrible dinky little sidecar I’ll be stuck with for the night.

I’m not kitted out with any tinkertech besides the bike I’m riding in—not yet—but it's already obvious how much more effective I'm going to be as a Ward than I ever would have been on my own. Even breaking into Winslow to confirm my suspicions had been done with PRT training and Protectorate tech. Now I'm working the case with Armsmaster's blessing and support and I feel unstoppable.

He gets onto the bike beside me and starts the engine. It whirrs alive, and a strange electric hum fills my ears. It’s like the buzzing of high-tension lines at the edge of my hearing, but magnified twentyfold. It’s still not as obnoxiously loud as a gas engine but I’m tense all of a sudden, ready and waiting for the next part of the show.

Every one of us present—Challenger and Gallant, Miss Militia and Vista, Assault and Clockblocker, plus me—looks towards the edge of the oil rig platform. For now there’s nothing there but a railroad signal shining a dull red light and an eighty foot drop to the waters of the Bay.

“Three, two, one,” Armsmaster counts, as the signal changes to an egg-yolk yellow then an emerald green. “Go!”

Challenger takes off before the signal turns green. Her front wheel lifts up into the air while the light is still yellow, crossing the ledge and hovering with nothing but water beneath before the hardlight bridge suddenly pops into being and connects the PHQ with the various waterfront neighborhoods of the Bay. I cackle as the rest of us get underway; if Gallant is screaming in terror, he’s already too far away for me to hear him over the sounds of engines. By the time the rest of the pack is splitting up at the fork in the bridge, Challenger has already made landfall. She slides horizontally across an intersection and skids to a halt, keeping the bike balanced on one leg with Gallant holding on for dear life. Then I lose sight of them as she blazes off into the night.

If I'm entirely honest, I want to try a ridealong with her once. Probably exactly once and then never again.

Armsmaster drives in a far more sober and incredibly boring fashion as we cross over the water and into the docks. It's for the best at the moment. It lets me focus, and I have a lot that needs my focus tonight. First, Armsmaster and I have a secret mission.

Okay, so the moment the thought crystallises into words, I wince. It's nowhere near that cool. We're not officially doing anything besides my first ridealong as an active cape. Finally. But unofficially I'm here to fuck up Sophia Hess’ life more. Not only is it going to be incredibly fun on its own, I hope to get a patsy out of it who I can force to do my bidding.

I hadn’t proposed this mission to Armsmaster in quite those terms, of course, but he has plenty of his own reasons to be on board. Having his go ahead meant I'd had access to hundreds of pages of records, plus all the cameras and trackers and recording devices and lockpicks that I could ever want—just for starters. It would have kind of worried me how comfortable the PRT is with handing all this equipment to children if I weren't so thrilled with the possibilities of what I can do with it all.

These ridealongs are a weekly thing, so they make a great cover story, and Armsmaster is the one who gets to set the schedule and pairings. What an amazing chance for me to watch and learn from the best, get some field experience, and put what I’ve read in the manuals into practice. If we happen to come across a known vigilante along the way, and also just happen to have a means of reeling her in, well, that's just a truly incredible first day out on the town, isn't it?

I hadn't expected it to feel like a first day out, not after my official debut and days working on this project, but now that I'm here it's easy to feel the difference. Being dressed up like this is weird. I've gotten used to being called Vixen—I hear it a lot more than I do Lisa, these days—but most of the time, the only costume I wear is my mask. I barely even register that it’s there anymore at this point. The rest of my costume has belonged more to the wardrobe department than to me throughout prototyping and testing and fitting. I only got to wear the finished-ish version once before, for my promotional photoshoot.

Now it’s mine, and even though it’s not what I originally asked for, I’m thrilled. The rush of wind over the water has torn my hood down behind me, and I flip it and my two little fox ears back up over my head until I can hide my hair within it. I make sure it’s still properly connected to the 'veste,' which is what we’re apparently calling the long, patterned lavender waistcoat-y thing I’m wearing as a top. It covers me from my shoulders down over my hips, where it’s mostly a solid colour with a few subtle designs in rose and gold embroidery to break up the visual. Then the veste flares out over my upper thighs into a pseudo-skirt that’s detailed with a whole mess of geometric patterns.

My hood seems secure, I’ve confirmed: Shavonne really knows her stuff. The rest of the costume is a tunic in light dusty purple, worn under my veste for comfort and to cover my arms, and blue leggings all the way down to my boots. And, of course, a utility belt, since no costume is complete without one. It’s not really just a belt: it connects up with some sneaky suspenders inside my clothing that bear the weight, so the stupid thing doesn’t fall down around my legs as I walk.

It's wild and eyecatching and visually noisy, it turns me into some kind of fantasy futuristic fairy fox thing and it's rad as hell. Request for a catsuit denied, they'd said to me, you'll take your veste and like it. As loath as I am to admit it I really do. It's way more striking than anything I could have put together on my own.

It's got variations too, which is something I didn't realise was a thing until recently. Vista had been only too happy to show off how her own costume has a dozen skirts she can swap between, each one with a different patterning for the tendrils. The result: she looks differently warped in every picture taken of her. We've all got things like that. I have nearly an entire second outfit in muted colours to swap in when I expect to need to be sneaky, and there's a scarf I can wear around the lower half of my face if I want to lean into a ninja vibe. I even have a fox tail and a cape for formal occasions, which is endless fun to play with and swirl about myself, and I've seen sketches in Shavonne's office about ideas for overcoats.

Tonight, though, my costume has been stripped down to the basics. I’m not out on patrol to play dressup, but to start unfucking the fucked-up situation I’ve found myself in. And also to fuck things up for a certain somebody else.

It’s been less than a week since Vice-Versa, my conversation with Armsmaster, and the Director’s ominous warning. I’ve spent that entire time making use of my newly-earned panopticon privileges, and now I probably know more about Sophia Hess than anyone besides Emma Barnes. Well, maybe her mother might know more than us, but I'm not so sure. Not a lot of love in that cape kid’s home life, which I’m starting to sense is a theme.

Anyway, turns out Sophia and Emma are the evil-universe versions of Victoria and me.

Maybe the difference isn’t quite that drastic. It's more like… they’re us, exaggerated beyond all reason. Emma’s like me at my bitchiest back home, although I honestly don’t know why. Her life seems pretty charmed by comparison. Her dad is willing to stand up for her, imagine that. Sophia is Victoria if she were an edgelord instead of a complete sweetheart. And also if Victoria didn’t have Amy around to patch people up if she ever took things too far. Murdering Nazis was apparently bad for New Wave PR, and the world was worse off for it.

After that the comparisons get weaker. For example, I'm pretty sure that needling Sophia about a crush got so deep under her skin that she might actually be developing one in the aftermath, or else it's finally bubbling up from somewhere even I couldn't actually see until now. This is a disaster waiting to happen, and while it’s incredibly fucking funny, that impending trainwreck doesn’t really have any easy analogues to me and my best friend.

The upshot of it all is that I’ve fed Armsmaster every relevant bit of info I’ve found out about Shadow Stalker’s patterns. Now he has an algorithm that tracks her routines with a spooky degree of accuracy. That’s presumably why we’re driving past the dilapidated warehouses of the docks instead of neighborhoods along Lord Street, closer to her usual stomping grounds. Armsmaster’s big-ass computer back home has figured out something about her plans that even I don’t know. He keeps me away from a lot of the details of how the algorithm works, but I gather it's a test implementation of something he's been cooking for a while. My contributions have him weeks, maybe months ahead of schedule. Recently he's been ecstatic about his projects in his own way: in other words, not any way visible to the naked eye.

Which is great, because not only do I want him happy but clearing out his schedule gives him more time to work on the quo part of our quid pro quo.

Everything's ready to twist the thumbscrews. Tonight, I’ll hardly have to do anything at all.

It gives me time to work on my other secret mission. I slip my hand into a pocket of my utility belt and withdraw my earbuds without touching the tape player they’re attached to. After giving Armsmaster a sidelong glance—of course he’s watching the road, not me—I slip them surreptitiously into my ears. They’re ten dollar pieces of plastic crap, hardly noise-cancelling, but it’s enough to let me tune out the sound of the bike’s engine and passing cars and the radio scanner Armsmaster’s had going since we made landfall. If he asks what I was listening to, I can play it off as music. He won't be curious enough about the people around him to ask a second time.

I've been avoiding doing this in the PRT building after Piggot’s dramatic warning about other people potentially listening in. Out on the roads of a ghost-town neighborhood at midnight in a hero’s bike is about the most privacy from hostile Thinkers I'll ever get.

If ‘they’ can hear me, even here… well, then I’m probably just fucked no matter what.

All week I’ve been trying and mostly failing to control my apprehension. As I close my eyes and hit play, the anticipation that's been building for days now spikes to new heights. It’s like a sharp needle stabbing into my stomach as I listen to the sounds of the tape recorder being placed into a drawer and sealed away. Every sound beyond that point is muffled, but not so much that everything isn't still clearly audible. Piggot's voice, beckoning Commander Calvert in, and then very kindly providing me with a summary of the man's involvement in ‘the Livsey investigation.’

"Director, the years have been kind—"

I slam the stop button hard enough that I can feel the plastic biting through my glove. My heartrate doubles, and my throat tightens as I feel hot blood surging through me, enough to make my fingertips prickle like they’re burning. I rewind the tape. Sometimes even I make mistakes. Not too often, but it happens, and the audio is pretty muffled. Maybe it’s not Coil. Maybe the man almost certainly responsible for my attempted kidnapping did not just walk into Piggot's office like he had a fucking invitation.

"Director—"

No mistake. It's insane, the entire world has gone wrong, but I’m right. I know that voice. I’ve heard it before.

It takes me a minute for the ringing in my ears to settle down. I don’t have another option but to push through. Whatever's on the tape is there, it happened, whether I listen to it or not. It's going to be a hell of a lot better for me if I know what Calvert and Piggot want from me. I…

I can figure out what to do about this afterwards. First I have to know. That's always the first step.

It's not an easy listen. Just the sound of the man's voice makes my skin crawl, and listening to him spar with Piggot is like chewing on glass. He even pulls the same fucking "is it Livsey or Wilbourn" stunt as during our phone call. This leaves me in the bizarre position of wanting to cheer for Piggot of all people, because she’s having none of it, casually insisting on my cape name like she'd never once used Miss Doe ever in her life. A moment later she gets territorial about me, giving me more insight into the interdepartmental beefing of government agencies than I ever wished for.

It's all so violently at odds with everything I know about her, and her past, and her weird prejudices. I don't think I'm ready to even try and process it yet except to think to myself, Damn, she really hates this fucker.

Any glee doesn't last for long as their conversation moves on to the subject of my power testing report. I give in to hope as Piggot puts up a fight, and then:

"They'll be on your desk tomorrow morning."

The only sound from then on was the scraping of chairs and the closing of an office door. I could hear it perfectly, because I wasn’t breathing and I was pretty sure my heart had stopped.

She’d folded, just like that. What the fuck had been in that email, to make her just give up? Calvert has everything he was after, and he leaves the instant he gets his prize. He knows how my power works, he has… everything. Holy shit, the horrible paranoid whispering in my ear that I was being watched was actually correct. I check the B-side of the tape, but no recorded message plays for me. I let the sound of the empty recording run. No summaries of emails or any other hint. Nothing else to help me.

I tilt my head back, my eyes still closed. My heart hasn’t stopped, it’s racing, but I just feel numb. This is way worse than I imagined. What could get Piggot to back off like that? She's probably the most stubborn woman I've ever met. It's something that she couldn't even stall, which means, what, orders from a direct superior?

Who does Piggot even report to? She's a member of the directorate. There’s no one else in Brockton Bay, at least, above her on the chain of command. Even senior directors of executive affairs—Glenn Chambers comes to mind—don't have the authority to give marching orders to her. Assuming whatever Piggot read was an order, and not some new blackmail material or something else unofficial that Calvert managed to leverage against her.

Piggot: spare lifestyle, few personal friends, no romantic partners, no debt and low living expenses. Blackmail material likely does not exist.

That’s good, I can rule that out. It doesn't completely exclude the possibility of shenanigans going on, but she's enough of a stubborn hardass that it's almost certainly an order then.

Received from Chief Director Costa-Brown, her only direct superior.

Holy shit.

Well that's a worst-case scenario. Is Calvert—or Coil, most likely, holy fuck—blackmailing the Chief Director? Does she owe him a favour? Are they fucking? I can only begin to guess. I want to dig into how in the hell that happened, but I'm very worried I'd send my power down a blind alley. A few minutes of tape recording and my own deductions aren’t enough of a lead to go on. I can't afford a wrong answer here, not when the stakes are 'am I or am I not going to get kidnapped and locked in a basement.’

Not that I’m sure being kidnapped or not has made much difference. I'm going to be getting a call from him or one of his lackeys soon, according to Piggot. What was even the fucking point of joining the Wards? The only shred of a silver lining here is that I know his civilian identity now, and that he doesn't know that I know that. Not as far as I know, not yet.

It doesn't make this any less of a disaster. I can feel the walls closing in around me. What the fuck do I do now? Go right back to Piggot and spill? Even if she believed me—and she seems to loathe Calvert enough that I give reasonable odds that she would—what could she do about him?

The answer is looking ilke jack shit, given that she tacitly asked me for my help dealing with him. It’s not exactly demonstrating her confidence in her own abilities. Even if Costa-Brown isn't in on whatever conspiracy is at work here, and that email was just her putting her foot down on some routine interdepartmental squabbles, it's still painfully clear that anything Piggot or anyone else in the PRT knows is potentially a risk. Fuck, if Calvert works with the Thinkers in Watchdog, even the things that only I know might not be safe. That didn’t even count whatever powers he might have access to across the rest of Coil’s shadowy organisation.

I have to pretend that's not true. If I don't, I'm going to drive myself completely insane. Besides, if he’d already had access to a power like that… what exactly would he need me for?

That thought is more comforting than it probably should be.

I have to keep this under wraps for now. Conceal, mislead, and lie. I can’t let Armsmaster know, can’t let the therapist carousel know, can't let anyone in the PRT know. I can’t let Victoria know. Coil's civilian identity is the only card I'm holding at the moment, and there is no way that I'm doing anything that might tip my hand. I'll figure out something to tell Piggot in the meantime while I work out how I'm going to make sure that Coil can never ever make me feel trapped like this ever again.

It's hard to bring my focus back to the present, back to the ridealong and my plans for Sophia and what I have to hide from Armsmaster. This web is already far too tangled, and I'm still trying to figure out how to start untangling it as my boss pulls to a stop and turns off his bike.

I step out after him onto the cracked concrete sidewalk of the docklands, looking around the street. There’s only a few buildings with any lights on, and none are nearby, leaving us under a comforting shroud of darkness. Instead of following Armsmaster right away, I run my fingers along the edge of the sidecar’s frame and think. It's easier to hear myself think now that the bike’s powered down.

Could I figure out the points during my escapes from Coil’s goons where their boss used his power? That’s the best lead I have. The first two times, there was definitely something fishy going on. Plenty of the times he had me stalked also came along with that same bizarre aura. The third encounter, the one that ultimately led me to join the Wards, didn’t have any of the same weird interference. I remember very clearly the relief of not feeling it, in fact, and was in a pretty good mood while running for my life up until the point I got flashbanged and pepper sprayed.

Does his power have a cost to it? Does he get the headaches? Was a headache why he had to back off that last attempt? I hope his are at least a dozen times as bad as mine. Is there an opportunity cost, that if he’s using it on me, he can’t use his power elsewhere? Maybe he decided that kidnapping me outright wasn’t worth the trouble, if getting me into the Wards essentially accomplished the same goal. I was simply working with Calvert now rather than Coil. Either way, his hooks were in.

"We'll cover the last leg on foot," Armsmaster says, and I shove my cassette player back into my toolbelt. All I can do is try not to look too visibly agitated as I hurry to catch up with Armsmaster. He notices something is wrong though, even if he totally misses what it is.

“Are you ready to start paying attention now, Vixen?” he asks. “This next bit will be important.”

The night is off to a fucking great start.

Notes:

Challenger watched Akira at age 14 and it left a massive impression on her.

Anways, this one took a fair while because not only did I end up again splitting a chapter in half, but I'm almost done drafting the chapter after that too. I just keep getting excited and writing parts of that one because I cannot wait to get there, and it'll be done drafting by the time 2.6 is finished being edited.

(Hell, it might be finished drafting tomorrow. Ambitious, but I'm super excited.)

ether did a truly massive amount of lifting in this one. After the split a lot needed fleshing out, and her work was invaluable. Including finally sitting down and forcibly dragging costume details out of me. I have good visuals in my head, but translating that to words was, uh, it took a while.

Edit: Oh shoot, I forgot to mention, Chapter 1 also got a few revisions. Nothing changed in terms of plot or other important details, but I think the opener reads smoother.

Chapter 13: Encryption 2.6

Armsmaster leads me back through familiar territory. The northern outskirts of town are nostalgic in a horrible way. I recognise these streets from the days I spent living on them, always with a watchful eye trained over my shoulder. Simpler times. Now I’ve returned with a Tinker shaped like a quarterback for backup.

There isn't a building over two stories as far as the eye can see, and more than a third of them are abandoned. About half of those optimistically still have ‘for rent’ signs up in the windows. Either they’re jokes, or whichever realtors or landlords put them up are too scared to come back here to take them down. The roads themselves have turned to shit, and the only greenery comes in the form of weeds pushing up through the cracks in the sidewalk.

“You sure your pocket panopticon's working, big guy?” I ask once I’m tired at looking at dark corners and blind alleys I’ve previously used to hide from Coil’s goons. It all feels a bit close to home at the moment. “Her usual patrol route is halfway across town. Did she catch the bus out here in costume?”

He doesn’t even break stride. I’m not really confused as to why we’re here, nor do I think his tech is broken. This is just to needle him for clues about how that tech actually works. His decision to patrol specifically this bit of Brockton Bay tonight was made for him by an algorithm that he trusts utterly but I can’t even start to understand. Not yet, at least. I can tell from his body language that he’s confident—so confident that he doesn’t react at all, which gives me frustratingly few hints.

"Shadow Stalker has been escalating the feud with the Empire ever since they attempted to assassinate her. This is her most likely next target," he says.

”Doesn't really answer my question. Also, why do you have a list of E88 hideouts that you’re just sitting on and not doing anything about?”

Ah, so that’s what it takes to get him to stop. He pauses, turns around to face me. I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Deterrence,” he says. “The Empire is the only villainous organization in the city that can match the Protectorate cape for cape. When they’re staying quiet and keeping in line, not doing much more than sending their members to range day and playing dress-up in white sheets, we don’t kick that hornet’s nest. The moment they cross the line to organised violence, we hit back hard and fast. The present situation doesn’t allow for more than that.”

Since listening to the tape I’d experienced a very brief rush of positive feeling for Piggot. Learning about this asinine policy reminds me why I don’t like or trust cops like her.

“And in the meantime a few kids are getting hatecrimed here and there, whenever the Empire’s rank-and-file get a bit too zesty. I guess those are acceptable losses to your boss.”

Armsmaster sighs and rubs his temples. I’ve actually bothered the man. Good. He should be bothered.

“Suppose we started an all-out war with the Empire. We would ultimately win, I have no doubt, but I also have a good estimate of how many people would be hurt or die in the crossfire. That on its own isn't even the most significant obstacle.” He drums his finger along his armored forearms, still not quite willing to meet my eyes. Not that I’d be able to see them past his visor. “The sobering reality of the moment, Vixen, is that the average taxpayer would rather live in a Nazi-infested city and preserve an illusion of peace than have heroes disrupt their lives for even a day while we fight to really do something about them.”

I could sympathise, maybe, with not wanting innocent bystanders hurt. The problem is I can tell the real sore spot here is his career. He’s frustrated, first and foremost, because sharing a city with the Empire is a bad look for him as its top cape.

“Always looking out for the taxpayer, huh?” I ask. “Yippee. That’s the most important part of being a hero.”

“It’s the truth, no matter how we might wish it were otherwise. It’s woven into the structure of the institution we serve. If we go on the offensive and we make a mistake, or even if it just takes longer than expected, the bureaucrats will be only too happy to replace us with people who will keep the situation at a simmer instead of a boil.”

He’s agitated but he’s not actually pissed with me. Nor with himself, oddly. I’ve struck something that he thinks about a lot, something central to his worldview. I got the sense that he sees himself as a soldier, in our past interactions, but that’s not quite right. He really sees himself as a general, which weirds me out even more.

“That’s why intelligence operations like this are so important,” he says, pointing at me. “The more we can learn their plans and secrets, the more likely we are to find something that lets us go beyond just keeping this city from boiling over. Maybe we can find a way to cut the gas.”

“For the record, I hate every part of this.”

If I didn’t already feel kind of sick from the paranoia and the thought that Coil’s eyes are on me even now, this conversation would’ve gotten me there anyway. We start strolling down the sidewalk, avoiding the streetlights where we can.

"She’s not taking the bus,” he sighs a minute later, like he’s finally stopped holding his breath. “Her patterns have started to show occasional access to a vehicle in the past month."

I think about that for a minute. There's no way she'd risk pirating the family car. I sort the facts out in my head and ask my power for a hint, then have to suppress the urge to smirk. Emma got her learner's permit recently. Someone's gonna be in trouble.

"Weird," I say. "Maybe she's taken up carjacking."

We turn down one of the backstreets, heading through a service space behind a strip mall that’s vacant except for the scariest Subway sandwich shop of all time. Even that has closed down for the night, and the whole block is dark and silent. He stops us at the end of the row of buildings, loitering in the shelter of a dumpster shoved up against the wall.

His voice is quiet, although we don't seem to be in danger of being overheard or spotted quite yet. "There's a body shop across the street. We’re interested in the owner. He was incarcerated for assault and domestic violence—"

"People get arrested for DV? That’s not just a nice story we tell ourselves?"

Armsmaster continues to ignore my contributions to the conversation.

"—and joined the nationalist Patriot Vanguard upon release, likely at the behest of a prison gang. The group has associations with a number of right-wing militias and hate groups, but has not been proven to be directly involved with anything overtly criminal, such as the Empire’s drug operations."

Would’ve been nice if I'd been let in on this before now. I might’ve been able to answer some of those outstanding questions, rather than just collecting the gossip on my soon-to-be new cape friend. At this point I should just feel lucky he let me come along. He's been playing this whole thing real close to his chest.

"We think Stalker's going to go after the Empire's guy with a hotline to the P Van?"

"Precisely. Since we happen to be in the area, there’s no reason for me not to join the fight that, as far as I know, the Empire is starting.” He smiles. “I will assist Shadow Stalker as appropriate. You will keep watch. I'll call you in when it's helpful for negotiations."

Okay, so maybe ‘pee van’ isn’t my best work. I’m not firing on all cylinders at the moment. That one needs some workshopping before I use it around Victoria, I bet she has great spiteful nicknames for these guys.

"Expecting any capes to show up besides Stalker?"

That seems like an especially important point to be clear on. It’s also something I’d have a bit more insight into myself if he’d told me anything about his exact plans in advance.

"No," he confirms. "She's disrupting their operations but not openly confronting their parahuman members. The last several encounters they've leveraged numbers against her, and she's learned to avoid that."

“Yeah, getting ambushed by a bunch of henchmen is a real wake-up call. Can't say I'm surprised she'd think twice about risking it.”

"We don't expect her until about midnight. Look for a vantage point. I’ll take a position on street level, ready to assist when she arrives.”

"Right, chief," I say, already looking around for a ladder. I’m trying to see if I can scout a good position up on the strip mall’s roof. His call to avoid putting me in harm's way my first night out probably makes sense. He also wants to see if he can flip her to our side without my help. I don't think he'll clinch it, since he has no idea how to talk to teenage girls in general, or what makes Sophia Hess tick in particular. Fortunately, I'm getting what I want either way, so I'm not too worried about how he'll do without me there.

Honestly, I'm just happy to come along. He's been silently leery about how much attention I’m getting as the new hotness and was worried I’d steal his show. It’s pretty twisted to be a grown adult and still be jealous of a child for getting attention, but fortunately I caught on quick enough to do damage control. Framing myself as something of a protegée helped thaw out the atmosphere. I'm a lot less threatening when he can chalk up my successes to his brilliant mentoring.

After a split-second of observation I realise the roof access point on this building is hidden inside. I seriously can’t be bothered to break in, so instead I hop up from the edge of the dumpster out back and up onto the roof. The building's only one story tall, which is nothing. The past few weeks of getting back into shape have shaken off most of the rust that built up thanks to abandoning gymnastics for the homeless lifestyle. I murmur check, check into the radio once I’m standing firmly on the gravel roof, and receive an I copy from Armsmaster in turn. Then I find myself a spot, leaning against a rooftop HVAC unit so that I'm not silhouetted against the sky to anyone looking up at me from the street.

Then I settle in to wait.

And wait.

After fifteen minutes—has it really only been fifteen minutes?—my mind is already wandering. Silhouette would have been a pretty good cape name. It's stylish, and feels like something a mysterious and cool heroine would be going by. What a great word, silhouette, it even sounds nice to say. Definitely not something that would work with me, though. Not my style. I prefer grating to elegance. I picked Vixen at least in part to annoy the PRT, but it's kind of growing on me for its own sake. ‘Trickster fox spirit’ is an acceptable thematic alternative to ‘hardboiled noir detective’, and much more my colours.

Half an hour passes. Help me. Save me. My mind has wandered so far that it’s circled back around to my actual job. What I’ve learned: stakeouts are boring as hell and, less importantly, why the Empire uses this place in particular. The auto shop and its scrapyard annexed onto it are two halves of one chop shop the Empire uses to dispose of stolen vehicles and auto parts. It’s also definitely a place to launder money—because how could it not be?—but I'd need to look at their books for a few minutes to be sure about the details.

Unfortunately, this short burst of deductive reasoning and power usage only occupies about two minutes of my time. Yet another thirty minutes passes. Scanning the shadows for impending danger, that familiar feeling of keeping my head on a swivel, knowing I’m being watched even if I don’t know how? It’s pretty hard to keep my thoughts from swirling around Coil like water circling a drain.

The lack of interference in my last brush with his goons is really bothering me. My first uncharacteristically optimistic ideas had assumed he wasn’t using his power at the time. After all, I’d noticed interference on all prior occasions, but not then. Now I stumble upon a secret, third option for what might have happened. What if he'd figured out, or lucked into, a way to avoid our power interaction? If he’d already engineered a way for his power to be undetectable to me, that was pretty much the worst-case scenario.

I need more data. I need to eliminate the impossible, narrow down what's still possible. Unfortunately, the only thing that's coming to mind at the moment would be interacting with Coil directly. It’s not an appealing idea in the slightest, even if I somehow got the chance.

I startle. A loud bang echoes from the auto shop across the way. It’s not a gunshot: it’s not loud enough and doesn’t have that telltale sharp crack to it. It’s more like a car backfiring? After a quick scan I realise Armsmaster's already made his move. Shit. That means he probably said as much to me, and I was so stuck in my own head that I acknowledged him without registering what he said. Probably.

That's a pretty big fuckup to start my career.

If I make up for it now, no one ever has to know. I'm not being yelled at over the radio, at least not yet. That’s nice, but I'm still way tenser than I would have been if I'd been properly on watch from the get-go. I feel that tension in my shoulders; all I can hope for is that there’s no consequences for my distraction. I'm definitely not missing anything now. The familiar rush of adrenaline through my veins keeps me focused.

I hardly need it to see what happens next. There aren't many cars on the street at this time of night—only half a dozen the entire stakeout, and I only bothered to count because each one was itself notable—so when I catch sight of a pickup going twenty over, running a red light, and driving halfway onto the sidewalk it's not hard to guess what's going on. I fish out my monocular for a closer look.

"Chief, company. One goon, he’s driving, plus two capes. Cricket, Stormtiger. You've got twenty seconds."

"Hookwolf?" Armsmaster wastes no time, voice terse over the radio.

"No one else. They wouldn’t send more than two."

"Understood. Listen, Stalker—" He cuts his mic mid-sentence, and I miss whatever it is he's relaying to her. Shit, he was already in the middle of trying to recruit her? How far along had the two of them gotten? Bringing her up to speed apparently takes precedent over giving me my marching orders.

The driver slams on the brakes at the last moment before he’d hit the auto shop, leaving long skid marks along the road and launching Stormtiger from where he'd been standing in the truck bed. He soars over the cab, his trajectory making a sharp curve towards the building. A final blast of air shatters the plate glass window just before he hits, turning it into a fragmentation bomb to clear the way for him.

I do unfortunately have to hand it to him. It looks pretty badass as an entrance. I doubt it has any of its intended shock-and-awe effect, though. Say what you will about Armsmaster and even Shadow Stalker, but they’re both seasoned capes. A warning should’ve been enough to neuter it. Cricket follows him in through the window with her dual kama, the fucking weeb, but their goon doesn't.

"Driver’s keeping the engine running, I don’t see any other civvies nearby," I report, hoping I’m being useful rather than a distraction.

"Noted." Terse, no further instructions or hints, but doesn't sound like I'm getting him killed by talking at least.

It's also enough of a hint for my power to piece together some of what he's not saying. He doesn't expect me to be much use in an actual cape fight. He’ll take my help while planning, sure, and maybe even during the cape banter part where we try to do the recruiting. During combat, he’d rather not be within half a mile of me.

I’d already embarrassed myself with the mistake, and showing up after the fighting's over having just sat the entire thing out feels like it'd be bad for my image. Proving that I can be useful to him might be crucial, if I ever want to leverage his help or tech against Coil. Problem is, I can’t exactly talk Stormtiger to his senses. What am I supposed to do?

All I know is it’s not sitting here and watching.

No need to prove Armsmaster right by making myself a liability, though. I don’t jump into the fray, but swap my monocular for a notepad and start scribbling. It helps focus what I already know and what I'm still looking for, and massively reduces my miss rates when I'm distracted and under pressure.

It's really galling how useful power testing has turned out to be.

The Empire capes showed up fast and were ready to fight. Tipped off by an alarm, or is there someone else here?

Multiple capes, rapid response, aware of significant break in. No alarm sounded in building, most silenced alarms report to authorities by default. Empire relies on human agents. Nearby member reported break-in.

I was leaning that way anyhow, but it’s nice to confirm. There’s at least one extra racist in our area of operations, either in the building or nearby. Were they getting their ass beat by Armsmaster and Shadow Stalker right now? Was that the loud bang I heard just now, right before Nazi backup arrived?

Sound of furniture and tools being knocked over: Shadow Stalker raiding the building. Looking for something. Armsmaster standing by, giving tacit approval, not directly assisting.
Currently: engaged with Cricket and Stormtiger, not calling for backup, not concerned for personal safety / Shadow Stalker’s safety. Believes calling on more heroes would spook Shadow Stalker, jeopardise recruitment mission.

So he thinks he’s got this handled. Nice, although if he’d just told me that it would have saved me the effort of figuring it out myself. More evidence Armsy isn't really taking me seriously. I don't think he's deliberately freezing me out, but beyond making sure I’m not targeted or taken hostage I'm dead last on his list of concerns.

All right, I know the means by which the Nazis arrived, and I know how they found that opportunity. What’s their motive? It's not just to fight for the hell of it. We're not a rival gang, we’re the government. This isn’t just a turf war: this entire block is radioactive to them now that we’ve been here and confirmed the presence of supervillains. They have to know that this chop shop is gonna be shut down, or at least under surveillance for the foreseeable future. They're not trying to defend a piece of dirt. Their lookout-slash-driver is still in the cab, engine idling. They’re not here to fight tooth-and-nail, but to do a hit-and-run.

There’s something here they want to protect, then. An object or piece of information that they don't want us to get a hold of. It’ll be something light enough for one person to carry on foot, if they had to, or they would’ve sent more people and a backup truck.

Fighting with powers inside auto shop, considers the business an acceptable loss. No additional Empire personnel inside, no one inside destroying records. Role of cooking the books taken up by lookout. Chop shop being used as a decoy to hide location of records. Lookout / records must be within line-of-sight, with good vantage point over the nearby neighborhood. Likely an abandoned storefront in strip mall. Likely in the empty store beneath Sarah-self.

I could’ve cursed, except now I don’t want to alert the guy who was probably about six feet under my boots. Of all the things to miss, just because I’d never thought to ask about it… shit.

The only thing to do now is to go after them. I tuck away my notebook. Should I call this in? It'd distract Armsmaster, and he's got two Empire capes keeping him busy. I'm not sure how much he'd be able to do. Ideally I’d make Shadow Stalker do this for me, she’s the perfect infiltrator, but I don’t have her on a leash yet.

That said… neither of the Empire capes know I'm here. Someone else, probably a plain old regular mortal, is doing the real work here while they cause a distraction.

That much, at least, I should be able to handle.

I tread lightly across the gravel rooftop towards a closed hatch. It’s secured with a padlock, but it only stays locked for about twenty seconds once I’ve put my tools to it. After learning how to do this with pen clips and bobby pins, using a real toolkit to pick locks is like child’s play. I lift the hatch as gently as I can and then slide down the ladder into the darkness. Once I'm on the ground again, I undo the snap on my taser holster.

I still can’t believe they let me walk around with this thing, but I guess being the only Ward who isn’t any stronger than an ordinary teenager in a fight made the difference.

The sounds of a fight are dampened by the building’s walls. I suppress the urge to hurry, keeping my movement smooth and quiet. The loudest sound in the building is the pounding of my heart as I step carefully through the weirdly high and narrow ceilings of the strip mall’s serpentine back corridor. It’s only lit by one fluorescent bulb at the far end of the hall, casting not-quite-enough of its flickery light over the place to read by.

I start testing the back door to each abandoned storefront in turn. They creak open on tired old hinges, the noise louder than the wind blasts and techno-explosions from across the street. I look in on dusty kitchens and abandoned massage parlours that haven’t been used for any legitimate business in years. There’s clear signs in most that people have been sleeping rough—flattened cardboard boxes as ersatz box-springs, empty bottles and ramen packets, but none of this is what I’m looking for. I keep moving. I'm either going too fast or too slow and I'm spiking my heartrate trying to figure out which it is.

The third door gives way, opening up onto a disused doctor’s practice. I immediately get hit by a wave of warm air and smoke issuing from a filing cabinet. All the drawers have been flung open, revealing dying flames eating away at the last of the papers. The lookout must’ve doused it in lighter fluid or similar to make it burn up so fast, before I even had a chance to smell the smoke.

The fire is attention-grabbing enough that I see it first and the thug second. He steps forward out of the shadows into a narrow beam of streetlight, shining through the top of the boarded-up front window to the shop. The light glints off the hammer of the pistol and shines over the pallid white skin of his hand. He's got it leveled at me, at just the perfect height to let me stare right down the barrel.

I really wish I’d cleared the fucking room first. At least one way or another I'm never making that mistake again.

Notes:

Who thought giving Lisa a taser was a good idea?

And this is another broken up chapter, so the next one is again fully drafted and going through edits. I've actually got a pretty significant bit of backlog built up at this point. Making ether earn her pay, putting forth all that massive amount of effort and excellent work she does improving these.

 

(I don't pay her.)

Chapter 14: Encryption 2.7

The PRT makes the Wards take up a martial art so we’re a little less helpless in the field. I’m trying kickboxing, and I’m less than enthusiastic about it. I’d gotten annoyed once and asked my only martial artist friend what good it would do against someone with a gun. She responded, horrified, that the only thing I'm supposed to do when someone has a gun is comply.

She worries way too much.

"Don't move," the thug says. His voice is strained and his hand is white-knuckled on the grip as he flips the safety off with his thumb.

The literal skinhead is standing beside the desk, taking partial cover behind the big custom desktop tower. He’s not firing yet, though, which is all I need. Now the next question: why not?

Tense. Recognises Vixen: seen photoshoot. Reluctant to fire. Does not understand power.

So bluffing that I’m Kaiser’s newest lieutenant wouldn’t work, then. Maybe I should have kept my hair blonde. Whatever, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of taking that easy way out.

I take a deep breath, raising my hands to head height, and I find that my shoulders relax. Faced now with a threat I can actually see, I'm feeling calmer than I have all day. He's not going to shoot if I just stand here. Not yet at least.

But my presence alone is a reminder of the clock he's on. The cabinet's a wash but he's not done getting rid of all the secrets yet. Now he can't even call out for help without alerting Armsmaster or Shadow Stalker as well.

One handed grip, stance unbalanced: novice shooter. Aiming at head. Intent to intimidate. Less than 10% accuracy at current distance in ideal conditions.

He's trying to figure out how to turn me into a hostage. I'm not going to give him the chance.

“Your friends in the Empire don’t invite you to range day, do they, cueball?”

He snarls wordlessly as he tries to draw a bead on me with one hand while turning his focus to the computer.

“Oh, that’s funny, you don’t have any friends. What’s even the point of being in a gang then?”

“Listen, bitch, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I grin. “They’ve got you on look-out duty here because they don’t respect you, man. When me and my four other cape friends win the fight outside, the capes on your side are gonna leave you behind. You got into this neo-Nazi shit because you’re a true believer, and you’re too stupid to see that everyone else around you is just in it for the money. They’re not going to stick their necks out for little old you, not even an inch. It’d be funny if it weren't so sad." I pause for a dramatic beat. "Wait, no, still funny.”

“Are you stupid, kid?” he says, waving the gun around in the air a bit as if I can’t see it perfectly well. “You know what this is, right? I'm holding you hostage. You get that?”

“I’m just talking, jeez louise, no need to insult me. Sure thing, I’m a hostage now,” I say, eyeing his grip on the firearm. It’s all askew. What form he had has vanished as he focuses on unscrewing the case rather than watching me. A girl isn't a threat, especially one too stupid to shut up. He can see Cricket's powers in a fight, enough to respect her on some level at least. He’s not lucky enough to see that mine is at work.

There’s less than a five-percent chance of getting myself shot if I make my play right now. That's a lot higher than zero, but I don't have to wait long to change that. A heavy thud shakes the walls and chromedome jerks around instinctively to see what it was. The pistol follows his glance and I don’t hesitate.

It only takes him a fraction of a second to regain his focus and round on me. It’s too late. I draw my taser and pull the trigger in one motion, launching the wires before I even have it fully leveled. The barbs sink into the man's flesh and he convulses. I have just enough time for my chest to tighten and a surge of adrenaline to sour my stomach before a twitch of his finger involuntarily pulls the trigger.

For a very brief moment I think I've gambled wrong. My head is on fire with the pain, like dozens of splinters have been propelled through the side of my head, but I haven’t been shot. It's just the noise: the bullet struck the wall behind me, and the sound of the gunshot ringing in my ears has my head aching.

For that moment of shattering pain it feels like time has stopped. I force it to start back up again so I can keep breathing. The recoil of the shot has knocked the gun from the spasming skinhead’s grip, and I eye the dropped weapon like a snake in the grass. I fumble at my holster as I cross the room, then give up and just drop the taser so I can focus on getting what I need from my belt kit.

The man's on the ground still as I kneel down beside him. He hit his head on the table on the way down and I can see blood.

Concussed, still conscious, stunned by taser, facial wounds superficial, bleed—

I zip-tie his wrists together anyway. I don't have time to figure out what to do with him. Cricket or Stormtiger will have heard the gunshot and could be here any moment, and I can't do anything to stop them. All I can do is… how does Victoria describe it? Take away what the bad guy wants?

I glance at the computer. It's some loser nerd's custom build, notable for being the only thing in the room of any value besides the gun. It's also huge, nearly two feet tall and almost as wide.

Tempered glass and steel frame. 45 pounds total weight.

Fuck that, no way I'm hauling it away. Neither is anyone else though, not during the chaos of a chase. That gives me an idea. I glance back at the floor, at the thug lying still conscious but still out of action. All he’s doing is making the occasional groan or retching noise. I can focus on my new target.

I rotate it around so I can keep an eye on the door while I work. I reach past the air vent at the back, and even though it was turned off by the time the truck showed up I can still feel the warmth through my gloves. My captive already dealt with the screws for me, and I feel around the case for where the release ought to be. Click. The glass panel pops open on its hinges, and I dig around past a tangle of cables, looking for the hard drive.

Then I spot it and let out a sigh of relief. It's one of the ones that looks like a big SD card, not a huge disc reader, and instead of being screwed in it’s set into a little plastic mount. Even better, my fingers are steady enough that I get it free and shove it into my belt alongside my notebook without taking half a century. It's more like ten seconds.

Then a shadow steps across the edge of my vision.

I close the case again, as if the shadow won’t notice me if I leave the place exactly how I found it. One deep breath, in and out, staring at the machine and keeping the door in my peripheral vision as I prepare myself.

It would’ve been really nice if the first person to react to someone shooting at me was Armsmaster. I get Stormtiger instead. I snap my head up to meet his gaze, but it's mostly for show. I’m already moving, grabbing the whole computer and hauling it bodily off the desk.

Stormtiger punches a hole through the case. If I hadn’t had it as a shield, he would’ve punched a hole through me instead. He doesn't even bother closing the distance, he just swipes at me with one clawed hand and releases the tempest. The blow sends me flying head-first away from the desk and into a wall.

The crystalline elastomers woven into my hood come alive on impact. The fabric warps to cushion the blow to my head, and it’s the only reason I’m not out cold on impact. I'm still left with sparks and colours instead of a clear picture of the threat.

The same high-tech defenses are woven into the rest of my costume but they're not rated for Stormtiger as he turns my chest into an anvil and hammers the computer against it. One, two, three blasts strike home and I collapse.

My diaphragm spasms. I struggle for air and can’t draw breath. It feels like he’s using up all the oxygen in the room. Every attempt to breathe drives needles into my empty lungs, and I lie twitching on the ground on the verge of spasming in pain. I only notice the glass fragments ripping at my skin when a cut on my forehead starts bleeding into my eye.

He didn’t even have to move from where he’s standing to do it. Stormtiger leaps forward and I don't have the strength to do more than haul what’s left of the case up to cover my face. His remaining claws tear into the computer, shredding metal and sending another shower of silicon and glass fragments tearing into my costume.

It's enough of a barrier that I only just barely feel them peppering me, and the pain is muted now. He’s not going all-out anymore, and it sinks in that I’m not actually his target. He's fixated on the computer.

All I can see of his face past the tiger’s-mouth opening in his mask is his real lips set into a determined line. He’s already discounted me as a threat, hasn’t noticed the hard drive is missing, and he’s overextended himself. I twist on the ball of one foot and lash out with a kick, the steel toe of my boot connecting with his calf.

It's a shitty kick but it’s enough to make him curse in surprise and pain. He hops back like he’s been stung and nearly falls, pushing himself upright off a wall as he recovers his balance.

I drop the wreckage of the computer and scramble along the wall, putting as much of the cluttered furniture in the room between us as I can. Maybe it’ll distract him for a moment, but once he figures out I have what he’s looking for he's going to fucking kill me for it.

I make a break for the back door. I need to figure something out because he’s already turning back around to face me, but he just takes one step forward and freezes. His hand is raised to lash out with his power, but he doesn't follow through.

Hears threat: Armsmaster.

Not at me, at least. He fires off the most intense blast of air yet, right at the boarded-up windows. I can hear the horrible groaning and crackling sound of wooden boards snapping in half mixed in with the shattering of glass.

He shouts a faux-German codeword that my power translates as a longer and angrier-sounding way of saying ‘run away!’ and does exactly that. He thinks that he got what he came here for, and he’s ready to leave before Armsmaster can stop him from leaving.

He gets less than a second of grace. Stormtiger begins to sprint away, not even bothering with the truck. Armsmaster strikes before I can figure out why. A chain snaps whipcrack fast from somewhere beyond my vision. Stormtiger launches himself out of the way with his power but only just, and the impact of Armsmaster’s halberd gadget shatters the surface of the street like a fist through drywall.

Armsmaster himself leaps into view as the chain retracts, forming a single whole weapon again. A short run, a bit of a windup, and he throws his entire halberd at the fleeing supervillain like a javelin. My neck strains painfully as I try to follow its path but in a split-second it's out of view. Armsmaster curses and rematerialises the halberd in his hand. That answers that question.

He crosses the street at a run towards me instead of giving chase. He steps through the broken window and drops to a knee beside me. A light on his helmet pops on as he silently assesses my injuries. His expression is so utterly focused it’s not clear in the first instant whether or not he’s pissed with me.

"No concussion. Two cracked ribs, minor lacerations, and significant tissue bruising, but nothing worse," he declares, standing up. He offers me a hand to help me up, which I obviously ignore. He lets it drop back to his side. "We'll have your head and neck evaluated at base regardless."

"Right," I say, testing my voice. It's getting easier to breathe, now that the threat has passed. The pain isn’t quite as overwhelming if I'm careful. “You gonna go after them?”

“We’ll let them go. We don’t have the resources to give chase.” Okay, so now that he knows I’m not hurt he sounds annoyed with me. "Vixen, what were you thinking, engaging on your own?”

“I got really bored, honestly, and started feeling left out.”

He frowns. “You’re lying. You—”

“I’m joking,” I say, raising my hands like he’s pointing another gun at me. Good to know he has that lie detector on at all times. “Here, check this out.”

I reach back down to my belt and produce the SSD with a flourish, extending it to him between my index and middle fingers. Immediately his demeanour is worlds different. The tension and frowny face vanish as he takes it, replaced by that calculating intensity I remember from the first time we had a conversation during power testing.

He wants to ask questions—his entire posture is relaxing, even if he's still residually unhappy—but Shadow Stalker chooses that moment to step through the wall. He clams up, not interested in saying more in front of outsiders. She returns to her corporeal form, hefts her huge scary crossbow, and stares at the two of us.

I grin at her and wave from where I'm sitting, still propped up against the wall. My aching shoulders hate me for it, but it's totally worth it to see her sort of retreat into her cloak. She’s already guessed I’m the reason Armsmaster is here tonight, is so mad about it she could cry tears of rage, but she won’t say a word about it while he’s here. Maybe she’s a bit smarter than she looks.

"Cricket fucked off," she says. "Finish what you’re here to say so I can fuck off too."

"I don't think there is much else to talk about, Shadow Stalker," Armsmaster says, totally missing the fact that she was talking to me, not him. "Brockton Bay is getting more dangerous. You're aware of that. I think you'd do well to reconsider our past offers. We’re stronger together."

My head wobbles as I half-turn over and push myself up to my feet. Maybe I’m not concussed but I'm definitely a little disoriented. My breathing aches rather than stabs at least, as long as I keep it shallow. And, damn, now that I'm standing I can see that I actually was hit hard enough to leave a mark on the wall behind me. It's a shitty wall that was ready to collapse anyway, but still.

"You should get started on it soon," I say, sing-song. "The paperwork is a bitch, but it’s way simpler to put together if you don’t procrastinate, before any other interested parties involve themselves. I should know."

In costume she manages to affect a bit more self restraint. She doesn't react to that at all, as far as Armsmaster’s concerned. Between her previous suspicions and whatever Armsmaster said before the fighting started, she definitely knows that she should expect her family to be getting calls soon. The fact that we reached out privately to her costumed persona was a courtesy. She’s still not happy about it, to put it mildly.

Armsmaster retrieves a flip phone from his belt and tosses it over for her. She makes the catch look kind of fluid and cool. It's not something I normally would really have dwelt on, but it brings up images of me trying to do the same right now and falling on my ass.

"Sure. I'll think about it," she says in an attempt to save face. She hesitates for a moment as she tenses and relaxes her fists. She’s audibly agitated the next time she speaks. "Vixen, you and I have gotta have a talk outside."

I glance over at Armsmaster.

"Don't be long,” he says, which honestly surprises me. “I'll call this in."

Apparently now he trusts me to handle whatever Stalker's got for me. Authority figures trusting me, now there’s a first. That leaves me more off-balance than the recent blow to the head as I stroll after her, keeping one hand on the wall just in case I need to steady myself. I note the zip-cuffed driver looking rather the worse for wear, lying on the ground in fetal position just below the cab of his truck. There’s a crossbow bolt the length of my forearm driven directly through the steering column and impaling the dashboard.

Stalker walks for what feels like a lot longer than it probably is, leading me down a nearby alley. We get a few paces away from the road before she rounds on me.

"You ratted me out," she hisses.

She looms over me, getting into my personal space in a way that would be intimidating if I weren't already quite used to having tall, athletic girls invade it. I don't find it particularly alarming anymore, even if Stalker isn't doing it because she wants to play with my hair. Her shitty hockey mask doesn’t evoke ‘horror villain’ so much as ‘cut from the junior varsity team.’

"Yeah, I did," I say. "You made it easy. Sucks to suck."

For some reason this doesn't mollify her. She drops her crossbow towards the pavement and stomps her foot into the stirrup, as if she’s about to draw it back, load it, aim and shoot before I can call Armsmaster over for a hand. No idea what she intends to accomplish with this. I guess she’s pissed and wants to threaten violence to make herself feel better.

But she isn't getting any angrier either, which is interesting. A quick power-dip tells me this is a kind of barbed banter she's used to. Pity for her she wasn't so reserved and in control at the party. She might have avoided all of this if Sophia had a fraction of the self-control Shadow Stalker does.

"Listen, bitch—”

“It’s Vixen, actually.”

“—You don’t do that to another cape. Keep it up and you're gonna find out why someday."

I tilt my head to one side, raising a finger to the corner of my mouth and pursing my lips as I hum. She's definitely being more careful. That wasn't quite an open threat. "You’re making a real effort to be good. It’s because you’ve figured out what’s about to happen, isn’t it.”

“You’re gonna go running to mommy again just like you did with my friend, yeah.”

Oh, yeah, power was spot on about her. She's pissed but the banter comes naturally. She really does feel more herself when she can hide behind the mask.

“Yeah, you’ve got me all figured out. My bosses are gonna hear all about you, SS. Thing is, there’s two different versions of you they might hear about. It’s a toss-up, but maybe you could help me decide?”

“The fuck are you talking—”

“Murderer,” I interrupt. I squeeze my eyes shut to give my power less inputs, because none of this works if I actually know it for a fact. She’s not talking anymore though. I open my eyes and grin. “Maybe I’ll tell them that. Or… maybe I’ll throw you a bone.”

Her posture shifts. She knows what that word means, the weight of it, whether or not the accusation is true. She’s thinking about jail times and her life basically being over. But she doesn’t attack. She leans against the wall, settling in to listen, and I realise that she’s gained a bizarre modicum of respect for me. She hates me even more now, but she won’t interrupt. I'm left wondering why I didn't join the Wards ages ago. I'm so good at this.

"Or maybe,” I say, drawing the words out into a purr, “that’s all a big misunderstanding. You want to do the right thing, fight villains, I've seen the files. I’ll be a perfect character witness for that half of you. You've been escalating, and thank goodness we recruited you before you made any life-changing mistakes.”

"Fuck off. They can’t catch smoke."

"You don’t even believe that. C’mon, bestie, why are you lying to me like that? You can talk to me!" I take a half-step closer. I have to tilt my head back to meet her eyes, but the counterinvasion of her personal space has her shifting uncomfortably. "Because the best part is, on top of that sweet signup deal I got you, with access to all kinds of toys and costume gear, you're coming into the Wards with a ready-made new best friend."

I stand on the balls of my feet for some extra height, until I’m barely an inch away from her mask. I’m close enough I can see the confusion, panic, and rage in her eyes, even in these shadows. I drop my voice nearly to a whisper.

"You and me are gonna be tight. Unmasking you was child’s play. Just imagine what else I've figured out about you in the last week. Don’t worry, I haven't passed anything else along to the nice folks at the PRT. Not yet."

By the way she tenses, I know she’s thinking of all the skeletons she has in her closet, the ones I’ve actively avoided thinking about just in case Armsmaster asks me to be a character witness under a lie-detector. I’ve been so focused helping him build his pattern model of her behavior that I wouldn’t have time to dig any of those skeletons out if I wanted to.

I’ve rattled her. Now it’s time to play the last card I have up my sleeve. I pat her arm and grin. "Good, looks like we understand each other. Now, don't want to keep your ride waiting, do you? Student drivers really shouldn’t be out after midnight."

She's smart enough to see the writing on the wall. It’s one thing for her to be in trouble—she feels like she’s tough enough to take it—but her cute redhead friend? She’s willing to fall on a sword or two for her. She doesn't so much as take a parting shot at me as she leaves. She simply dissolves into a transparent echo of herself and leaps away into the night.

I blow her a kiss as she retreats. "Ciao."

I find Armsmaster sitting at the desk in the ruined office I'd left him in. He has the computer fragments spread out, sorting them.

"Vixen, we need to debrief," he says, that same intense expression of focus on his face that’s his version of a grin. I think I’m glad that I preempted his displeasure with me for running off alone. "Do we need to follow up with Shadow Stalker?"

"Oh, she's gonna give you a ring tomorrow,” I say, before hedging. “Maybe the day after. She'll try to wait long enough to make her feel like it's her idea instead of her caving to pressure, but she can see where this is going. She doesn't want you to go calling her family. How was she in a fight?"

“Competent. She held her own against Cricket. If she were one of ours, if I could’ve given her instructions, I believe we would’ve caught both of them tonight.”

“Great to know I didn’t recruit a dud, then.” As totally bleak as my situation looks, I still feel better having done something about it. Now I have someone I can pressure into helping me execute my plan to rid myself of Coil. Once I figure out what that is.

Armsmaster nods. "You did well. Next order of business: the drive to this machine? I assume that you retrieved it before it was smashed. Good thinking."

"I worked out what the idiot brigade was up to and how they got here so fast. By the time I found their lookout he'd already lit up the cabinet and was working on the computer," I explain. "Short version is, he drew his gun and I tased him. That's when the gun went off. I pulled the SSD before Stormtiger showed up, and I made like I was trying to get away with the whole computer. He smashed it the hell to pieces, then left his buddy behind when you were about to show up."

Armsmaster relaxes back in his chair, watching me as he absorbs the summary of what went down. "That was quick thinking, Vixen. Concealing what you know is at least as valuable as the intelligence itself. You did far better than I expected."

Talk about damning with faint praise. The crazy part is, he thinks that sounds like a nice compliment. He's trying to butter me up. Why, though? Now that I’m out of danger I can feel the first hints of a migraine. I should ease back on using it constantly, but I can probe a little first.

"Gee, thanks chief. You've got me blushing," I say, massaging the back of my head in faux embarrassment. "Not worried about me almost getting shot, huh?"

"It sounds as though you had the situation well in hand." He pauses. "We may wish to leave that particular part of this out of our reports, however. You’re not Aegis. Being shot would be suboptimal. The Youth Guard gets far more upset about gunshots than they do about objectively more dangerous powers."

Honestly, I can live with keeping that little incident quiet. I'm not sure I would want anyone knowing exactly how we got here tonight after all. Figured him out on my first try, too. The one bit of good luck I’ve had recently is that his selfish interests mostly align with mine. Now I have the added incentive of putting him in a good light so that he gets to work on my fox ears.

"Pretty sure my report's gonna be pretty threadbare, anyways. First time filing one, and gotta say the excitement of the evening has me scattered about some of the details."

"If you need help recalling details and sorting out your memories, let me know," he says. In other words: let’s keep our stories straight. “Take tomorrow off to decompress. Whatever is on this hard drive, the Empire was willing to spend blood to keep it out of our hands, and they failed thanks to the initiative you showed. You should feel proud of what you accomplished here tonight."

Huh. I kind of leaned into the protegée thing a little to make sure he didn't feel threatened, but I didn't expect any authority figure to ever approve of a decision I made. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and leave him alone with his work.

There’s too much on my mind for me to really relax, as I wait for the PRT vans to come collect our captives. For the first time, though, I feel like I’ve done something that matters. Maybe I’m getting used to this hero thing after all.

Notes:

And there's the end of this little mini-arc. I love Sophia and Lisa's dynamic so much. I can't wait to see how well they get along in the future.

ether, as always, was absolutely clutch here. Not only just in cleanup, but she fixed the blocking in a way that made this entire thing just flow so much nicer.

Edit: Also, fun fact, Lisa is now going 2/2 in winning her fights as a cape by getting slapped. Stormtiger does slap noticeably harder than Emma, tho'.

Chapter 15: Encryption 2.8

Piggot's office is easily my least favourite part of the PRT headquarters, and I’m getting way too familiar with it.

"I do have today off, you know,” I say. “Relaxation and entertainment are protected peripheral needs. Plus, I got my ass beat last week. I’m in recovery for a bruised rib.”

“Have you tried rubbing some dirt on it, Vixen?”

I don’t sigh at her, because that would display weakness. Instead I sharpen my evil grin and hold up my cellphone to show off where I've pulled up my contacts entry for 'Hector,' just waiting for me to sic my lawyer on this conversation.

“There are labour laws about what I can and can’t be compelled to do. Maybe you’d like to talk to my lawyer about it instead of me?"

"That won't be necessary," Piggot says. She already looks done with me, which I take as a win. "This will take all of five minutes. Don’t pretend to be inconvenienced by this: you still live in the PRT Headquarters. Some of us commute."

"I have plans," I say, moving my thumb to hover over the call button. "Not only is this delaying me, but that kind of exception is how unions erode and bosses start stealing wages. To say nothing of the very strict limitations on how many hours minors can work every week. I hear the consequences are severe."

"Vixen, you are here precisely because you don't give a damn about following rules whenever they don't suit you. But yes, I suppose we can reschedule this for when you're officially on duty. It will waste everyone's time, delay any followup, and irritate your supervisor, but at least you’ll gain absolutely nothing for your trouble."

Piggot's no-bullshit attitude doesn’t give me much to work with. It’s almost as bad as Steph’s sincerity. I put away my phone. "All right, all right. What is it? Am I having a meeting about scheduling meetings?"

Piggot stares at me. "That depends. What steps, if any, did you take to ensure that you weren't walking in on a classified briefing?"

"Used my power on the secretary. You were alone," I say, crossing my arms and daring her to push me further. She doesn't, since she already knew my answer and prepared for it.

"Then this is merely an issue of protocol rather than a security breach. You will be assigned a training course on personal communication and conflict resolution rather than additional briefings on information security. Don’t look at me like that, Vixen, your power was going to mandate this sooner or later."

I already have a whole bunch of extracurricular work and extra classes thanks to my power. My displeasure is apparently harder to disguise than I'd like.

"Monstrously unfair, I’m sure, I’ve heard it all before. I've consulted with Mr. Castillo, and he agrees that it is a reasonable action. You'll also have a letter of reprimand added to your file."

I wait for a moment for her to go on, but she seems done, which is worse.

"That's it? That's all you called me in here for?" I glare at her. "This could have been an email."

"I’m not done, Vixen," she says, pushing herself up in her chair so she can resettle down into it, arms on the rests like a queen on her throne. “There is also the matter of the content of your complaint.”

"So you are my complaints department now?" She doesn't rise to my needling. Between being a hardened combat veteran and the years of being a fat woman, there’s very little I can say to bother her. Not much gets under her skin.

"The terms of your probation included mandatory counseling. In light of your concerns, we will no longer be combining that with the PRT-required therapy sessions. It will be handled separately, by a dedicated counsellor, who will provide you with a setting you may find more amiable."

Ah, crap. I can see where this is going. Punish me by giving me exactly what I said I wanted. The tyrant's version of malicious compliance.

"Why the sudden change of heart?"

Even before the question is fully out of my mouth I'm regretting it. Piggot smiles. It’s faint, but fuck if she doesn’t look downright sinister.

"A child came knocking on my door, telling me that the system I manage was failing her and begging me for help,” she says in syrupy tones. “What else do you suggest I should have done?"

A child came begging for help. I wither inside, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands as every bit of progress I've made in getting her to take me seriously evaporates just like that. I'm not sure I'm ever going to recover from this.

"You talked with Yamada."

"She spoke ardently in your defence, and has volunteered to take on the responsibilities of your probation-mandated counsellor in addition to her other duties."

The thought of Yamada doing that right after I accused her of being a callous stooge and rooted around in her personal memories is something I'm going to have to process later. I must have really struck a nerve.

Worse, I have to take this therapy shit seriously now. I could have just kept my mouth shut and lied to an endless parade of therapists and gotten off entirely fine. "Is it too late to take back everything I said? I haven't signed anything yet."

"I'm afraid I already submitted and approved the request. I expect to hear from Dr. Yamada that you are a model patient."

I don't know which is a more terrifying prospect: that Piggot really did sign off on her own proposal, or that she just made a joke.

A thought occurs to me and I brighten.

"If I'm just the best at mental health and the perfect patient, can I get the PRT sessions waived?" I ask, giving her my very best expectantly hopeful look.

"No, Vixen, you are not getting them waived. They are legally required, not legally suggested."

"But it's going to be twice the time wasted on the same stuff," I protest.

"Three to five times as much time," she corrects me. It should be illegal for her to enjoy herself. "The usual PRT sessions occur every two weeks or monthly depending on the circumstances. You will be seeing Dr. Yamada weekly."

I groan, slumping into my chair in defeat. I'm only making this worse.

“That will be all, Vixen. Enjoy your day off. Unless,” she says, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “there was anything else you wished to discuss?”

The answer is no, there is nothing I want to discuss. Doubly so here in the middle of the PRT building where anyone could be listening to us. I'm still on the fence, wondering whether I should say anything at all. A few days have passed since the initial shock and I've come around to the idea that I have to say something, whether or not I should.

"Actually, I do have a question," I say, trying to figure out how to lay this trail of breadcrumbs properly. I’ve spent several sleepless nights trying to figure out how to speak up without jeopardising my only significant advantage in this war. "The lead suspect in my kidnapping attempt is Coil, right? Armsmaster told me so."

"That is correct." Piggot says, her attention laser-focused on me now.

"Do you have any idea how he found me yet? Boss, gotta be honest, I thought I was keeping a pretty low profile. So how did he know where to look?"

"I… can't comment on an ongoing investigation,” she says, already lost in thought. Thoughts about the Livsey Investigation, and Thomas Calvert, and Watchdog. She’s drawing the connections I want her to draw, without me having to say one word of anything I’m not supposed to know, and without her hitting on the one thing I definitely want to keep from Coil.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say,” I say, smothering a grin as I get up, just in case someone looks over this particular camera footage. Then I turn tail and flee from her office into the afternoon sun.

---

It’s unseasonably cold and damp, and the afternoon sun has entirely failed me. The vaunted Boardwalk kind of sucks on days like this when it’s not even sixty degrees, windy enough to cut through extra layers, and dismally grey all the way to the horizon. As much as I was looking forward to today, I want to go back inside.

"Are you wearing your own merch?"

I raise one arm up to shoulder-height so I can inspect my cardigan’s indigo sleeve, my mood suddenly improved. "Who, me?"

Victoria drops both arms onto my shoulders before grabbing the cardigan's hood, flipping it up over my head and blinding me. Even though I can’t see anything above the bridge of my nose, I feel her thumbs caressing the fox ears sewn into the fabric.

"I didn't say no," I say, grinning as I lift the edge high enough to look up at her again.

For a moment Victoria is speechless, her mouth working silently as she stares down at me, stunned. By my audacity, presumably. I don’t use my power on her in the same way I do on most people, picking apart the meaning behind every individual gesture. Not usually, anyways. She's more trustworthy than anyone else I've met, and I'd be giving myself migraines if I kept it up every time we hung out.

She shakes her head. "I cannot believe you. You're going to blow your cover by tomorrow."

"Nah, it's the perfect disguise when you think about it. Who'd ever expect me to be so obvious? If anyone's ever suspicious I'll just say I'm Vixen's biggest fan."

Victoria rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't be wrong."

"Why aren't you wearing your merch?” I ask her. “You're out already, why not be proud?"

"It's tacky," she says, with such finality that I’m immediately suspicious. I arch an eyebrow at her.

"Oh come on, I know you buy into your own hype. You're such a cape nerd and… nothing? You've got two dozen logo pins on your backpack."

She shakes her head. "And not one of them is mine. The only ‘Glory Girl’ gear I wear is my actual costume. I did have to wear a t-shirt with my own logo on it for a convention once and I was dying the whole time. I think I might not have survived if Amy didn't let me swap with her halfway through."

I can only imagine how hard it had been for Amy to feign nonchalance at the idea. She probably still has the shirt in her closet. Never washed.

"Yeah, I don't think I believe you," I say. "I've seen you practise your landings for maximal cool factor, and then you look around to make sure everyone’s seen. You're telling me that you, of all people, don’t wanna show off?"

"Yup, I'll show you my backpack. I've got every Bay girl on there and a few others besides, but not me."

I click my tongue, tilting my head to one side to give her a sceptical look. "I won't have proof of that until school starts up again. You'll just take yours off and replace it with someone else's to cover up the gap."

"You'd be able to tell, silly," she says, giving me a playful shove.

I shrug. "Maybe, but it still wouldn’t be as fun as giving you a hard time about it."

She laughs and I smile back at her. "It’s a bet, then. Fuck the Boardwalk, it’s cold out. Let’s head back to my place early so I can prove it to you before I can hide the evidence."

"Really?" I am genuinely amused that she's pushing back so much against the teasing. "Right now?"

"It's not hard to get there by bus and…" She trails off for a moment before visibly brightening, and I know what she’s about to say before she says it. "Actually, are you afraid of heights?"

"You plan on carrying me?" I ask. "I wouldn’t be your first guinea pig… who else? Dean? Amy?"

“Both, actually. Just them. Well, sometimes I throw Brandish around during fights, but that’s different. I don’t help her commute.”

“Dean doesn’t seem like he’s got the constitution for high speeds and big falls.”

“Be nice,” she warns me. “And hey, just goes to show how safe it is.”

"I guess it'd be way faster than the bus, and free," I say. I leave out the fact that I fucking hate the bus at this point. We both know. At some point she'd figured out that I get a little jumpy about public transit, but she's gone out of her way to avoid bringing it up.

"I've never dropped anyone who didn't ask and wasn't ready for it. Except bad guys,” she promises. “It can be spooky if you don't like heights, though."

"That's an awful lot of caveats there. Maybe I’m a bad girl. Gonna drop me?"

"Only if you don’t behave. Sit," she says, pulling me towards a bench as the lack of explicit refusal is consent enough for her. My knees bump against the seat and I topple backwards before she slides one arm under my legs and the other around my back, lifting me up into a princess carry.

"Wrap your arms around my shoulders," she says, voice quiet. We’re so close together that she doesn’t have to speak up over the ocean breeze.

I oblige her, draping my arms across her and holding on tight. We're close, far closer than we’ve ever been before. This has to be the first time I've ever looked her straight in the eye. I can make out every detail on her face: the smudge of her lip gloss onto her philtrum, the little patterns in her irises. The blue isn't especially vivid today in the diffuse light of an overcast New England summer afternoon. They’re usually brighter than this, reflecting the sky or the waters of the Bay. Without that, they’ve reverted to a simple steely blue-grey.

“A princess carry,” I say, suddenly self-conscious as I realise I've been staring. “Intimate.”

"It gets your arms out of the way and keeps your centre of mass in close," she explains as she shifts me about like I’m weightless. "Would you prefer a fireman’s lift?"

"I think I'm good."

It's actually a lot more comfortable than I would have expected. I know this weirdo is faking being invincible, even though we’ve never really talked about it. She has this forcefield that spreads across her body like a glove. At this moment, it’s convenient. Her power isn't wrapping me up in a blanket, exactly, but it sort of fuzzes a bit at the edges, spreading out to distribute my weight so that her arms aren't digging into my body.

“Comfortable? Ready?” she asks, and I nod. "All right, let's go!"

She takes off a lot more gently than the exclamation would suggest. She lifts us straight up for a while before heading downtown. Soon we're starting to crest over all but the tallest of buildings, which feels far higher up than I expected. The cars are tiny beneath us.

"We never go below roof level if you can avoid it," Victoria says as she sees me looking down. "Capes are like helicopters. We can operate low, but the vision's poor and there are a lot of obstacles. It takes away our advantages, and you wouldn't believe the number of wires that come out of nowhere when you're going fast."

"Yeah, don’t garotte me—" I agree before she starts to pick up speed and then we can't speak anymore. It's loud up here, even though we’re going slow compared to what she’s capable of. It's windier this high to begin with, and once we hit twenty miles an hour, the noise is like standing next to a blender. Her forcefield must protect her from that.

The wind in my eyes has me tearing up until I’m blind. I turn my head the other way, resting my chin on her shoulder so I can look behind us, past my red hair whipping about in the wind.

Brockton Bay is kind of a dump, but from up here it doesn't look all that bad. Nothing ever looks too bad from far away. You can't make out all the worst signs of decay, the run-down urban sprawl or the derelict post-industrial wasteland, and the inlet and river that splits the city in half are downright picturesque. The nearby coastline is a jumble of sand and pebble beaches with frequent outcroppings of granite and high promontories dotted with windswept pitch pines and beach plums. The grey cast to the sea makes it a perfect day for brooding by the water, so it’s still nice even if I don’t feel like going for a swim.

None of that matters when most of the beaches by the city centre have used syringes and other trash wash up pretty regularly. It's probably why this place doesn't get much tourism. That and all the capes.

I bet it looks great in postcards, though.

We're high enough over the city now that no one looking up would be able to see us clearly, and I doubt anyone's even looking. I don’t feel as exposed as I expected to. The nature of her flight and the cushioning of her forcefield make it less like being carried and more like floating with Victoria along the wind. The way she holds me close means I’m comfortably warm, and only my nose gets cold from the wind.

I can see why she loves flying so much. I feel safe here, despite the obvious dangers of being hundreds of feet in the air. Even if I did fall she’d probably manage to catch me.

Despite our modest pace it takes less than ten minutes before we start to descend. We’re heading towards what is definitely one of the nicer parts of town. ‘Nice’ in Brockton Bay is a relative term, of course; all it really means is that the graffiti and urban decay are at a minimum here. You could still fit three of these houses inside any of the ones near where I grew up. It’s for the best. Seeing a gated community would give me flashbacks.

Victoria lands so gently that I don't even feel the impact. She starts trying to let me down but runs into a problem: me. I still have my arms wrapped around her, my head tilted to lean against her neck.

"You can let go now."

I shake my head. "Nope."

"I'm sorry, I did warn you that a lot of people find it disconcerting…" She trails off, getting worried for a moment before I laugh at her.

"It was amazing and I feel fine," I say. "The only thing I'm sad about is that I can't get everywhere this way."

I reluctantly let go of her, and she eases me down onto my feet. She doesn’t let go until she’s sure I’ve regained my balance. She still doesn't look fully confident, brow furrowed, like there’s something more she wants to say.

That’s not like her. She spends all her time around people who can read emotions, and doesn’t tend to bother hiding hers at all. It’s enough to prompt a now-rare use of my power against her.

Disagrees. Considering an offer to fly Sarah-self everywhere. Worried about whether Sarah-self would accept. Self-conscious.

"The view is incredible and I’m apparently not afraid of heights." I say, trying to distract her from her feelings. "If only your, ah, 'invincibility' worked on me too. The wind was a bit loud. Otherwise it was perfect."

There, the perfect distraction. An implied question about her powers. She doesn't bother trying to hide how they work.

"I'm not positive, but I'm hoping that someday maybe I'll be able to do that. Early on I couldn't get any of my clothing inside, and let me tell you, that was a problem in the kind of fights I have. Mom still gives me a hard time about all the replacements I’ve needed, and the skirt's still a bit hit or miss. Flying's not the only reason I wear shorts under it." She smiles ruefully, rubbing her hip and thinking of wardrobe malfunctions past. "I'm hoping I can extend its reach that far, at least, although there's no guarantee I'll ever get it cleanly around another living person."

"Something to work on. Hey, have you ever talked about it with Steph?"

"Who?"

"Stephanie Marin, PRT Medical Director," I clarify. Victoria shakes her head. "I'll have to introduce you two; you'd love her and she could probably help point you in the right direction."

"That, I think, is the one thing about the Wards I'm jealous of. Your support staff," she says as she starts leading me along the front walk towards the door. There’s no garden, just one young tree interrupting an otherwise-unbroken stretch of grass. "New Wave only has Gerald the accountant, and even he's a contractor. Carol and Aunt Sarah would ditch him if they could."

I wrinkle my nose. "Thinking of your mother, you've told her I’ll be around tonight, right? I do not want to be a surprise."

Considering one of the times a Dallon family household got a surprise visitor, it was a member of the Empire there to assassinate Victoria’s aunt. I still remember that from the news.

"You won’t be," she says, absentmindedly. I don’t think she caught why I’m nervous. Maybe that’s for the best. "She offered to have you over for dinner, by the way. Is that okay, since…"

"My identity? Sure, doesn’t make sense for you and Amy to dance around the subject. There’s no point being only halfway out to your family. Besides, my secret identity is barely secret in this town’s heroic circles.”

I haven’t told her that my secret identity is also an alias, but I’ve grown almost fond of being Lisa and Vixen. If I ever need to bail, I'll have to leave both names behind and reinvent myself. I’d rather not do that.

Victoria looks relieved. "That makes this easier. I hate having to hide things from her. She fucking cross-examines me when she thinks I’m lying, even if there’s a good reason for it."

I nod and take a deep breath. At least we won’t have to do that, then. This is still going to be weird. Brandish being Victoria's mother isn’t a secret, but knowing who she is doesn't prepare me for meeting her in person.

"Are you okay?" Victoria's lingering with her hand on the door, looking at me intently. Of course she chooses now to be observant.

"I'm fine."

She does not look convinced.

"I really am. I…" I trail off trying to figure out how to explain my sudden attack of nerves.

"Wait… I know that look,” Victoria says, in the horrible tone that means I’m about to get owned. “You’re a Brandish fangirl, aren’t you."

I squawk in indignation. She grins, her expression approaching a ruthless sort of glee.

“Oh my god, you are.”

"Am not."

"Spoken like someone who isn’t, for sure, not in the slightest."

What an asshole. She doesn't actually believe what she's saying, but she's going to give me hell for this anyways. I just had to go and hang out with someone about as perceptive as a girl can be without powers tilting the scales. If only I’d picked a nice autistic girl to befriend instead, I’d just have to tolerate ramblings about trains or dinosaurs or bugs while comfortably remaining an enigma.

"Look…" I say, trying to figure out how to explain myself as little as possible. If I say nothing the teasing will only get worse. "After I triggered, I didn’t exactly have a mentor to guide me through it, all right?"

I sigh, running my fingers through my hair as I try to figure out how to say this without it sounding as lame as it does in my head.

"Capes don’t talk about what it’s like to live their lives with powers, not really. You know all those Triumvirate biographies and biopics? They’re at least ninety percent bullshit, even if I can’t always tell exactly where and how.”

“Right, that makes sense.” Victoria nods, and I can see the look in her eye that means she has something about capes or powers that she just needs to share. “You know, in the textbooks—the ones I’m using for Parahumans 101 next semester—they use our family as a case study, right? And there’s not that many glaring inaccuracies but, um…”

I cut her off. “I’m not talking about textbooks right now. Weren’t you grilling me about being a fangirl?”

“Oh, right.”

“Anyway, your mother did this tell-all interview in Teen Vogue like a year or two ago,” I say through gritted teeth. “Reading it, it helped.”

She's probably read the article herself, so at least I don't have to go into detail about why it might have been relevant or useful to homeless and lonely me. This is already perilously close to being a heart-to-heart.

"That's actually really sweet." Victoria's expression softens considerably. "She's your cape mentor, like your Obi-Wan. You had a connection to us even before we met."

I glare at her. "Don't you dare say another word. Obi-Wan? Are you fucking kidding?"

She laughs at me but otherwise doesn’t respond as she opens the door and ushers me in.

I don't get any time to prepare myself. She's just right there, sitting on the living room couch, and Victoria is acting like it's normal for Brandish to be shuffling through documents instead of cutting cars in half with a lightsaber.

She looks up as the door closes behind us.

"You're home early," she says, ready to go on, and then she registers my presence. "I see. Welcome in! This is your new friend?"

"Yeah, this is Lisa. I’ve mentioned you to her," Victoria adds, with a backwards glance towards me.

"Lisa, AKA Vixen," I clarify, just to be sure. Carol isn’t surprised. Worse, her demeanour shifts from politely distracted to downright solicitous.

"Ah, I wondered. I feel as though we've already been introduced, Lisa," she says, setting aside her work and standing up to greet us properly. She takes my hand, clasping it in both of hers as she gives me a professional handshake. "Your reputation precedes you. Between Victoria and a number of my colleagues I've heard so much about you. I'm Carol."

"Victoria's mother," I say, regretting my choice of words instantly. I sound like a dork to my own ears. I don't often feel out of my depth, but these different parts of my life colliding in one spot feels unreal. "Your colleagues, huh? You talked with Hector about me?"

"Among others. All good things, I promise,” she says, in a way that makes it obvious to me there definitely have been some bad things and she’s electing not to share. Having already dropped my hand, she leads us both into the living room. Now we can stand around awkwardly while she stows her papers into a box below the coffee table where she’d been working.

“Awesome,” I say, looking into the dark and empty hearth on the opposite side of the room. The idea of my existence being observed and discussed in yet another place I was previously unaware of kind of makes my head spin.

“Nothing confidential, don’t worry. I’m glad you’ve stopped by. I’ve worried about Victoria not having many friends her age.”

“Mom,” Victoria protests. “I so do. Come on.”

“Then why don’t you bring them around for dinner?” Carol counters, a soft smile on her face. She turns back to me and her expression darkens. Why? She’s not looking at me directly, she’s thinking about something that was already on her mind. I relax, but only slightly.

“In the interest of full disclosure, I did hear about one other thing. Your Wards contract," she says, shaking her head with an expression of complete distaste. "Absolutely shameless."

Weird that it's not me being called shameless. "I thought it didn't go too badly?" I say, mentally scrambling to figure out if there's a new bomb hidden in it that I haven't noticed yet.

"Oh, I hear you acquitted yourself well despite the government’s attempt to railroad you," she assures me. "Hector was impressed by how you rose to the occasion. Most new Wards have family to stop them being strong-armed. Reading between the lines of how quickly your application was processed, I assume some exigency made this impossible in your case. I can't say I'm surprised that the PRT tried to take advantage of you, but that doesn't make it less of a disgrace."

"Now they've got her arresting Empire goons on her first night out," Victoria says, cheerfully adding fuel to the fire. Traitor.

"And no surprise. A clever young woman who can handle government overreach unscathed is going to find the rest of the Bay tame by comparison."

My cheeks feel decidedly warm. I steal another quick glance towards Victoria and my heart sinks at the absolutely sadistic gleam in her eye. I know I really can’t talk, but I swear that dunking on me makes her day.

Then, for the first time in her life, Amy Dallon decides to be a hero. I'm only saved from further humiliation by the sound of her thumping down the stairs.

"Victoria? I thought you were…" She trails off as she comes to a halt several steps from the bottom, once she realises that the rest of us are staring back at her.

"Amy." The way Carol enunciates her name is only marginally warmer in tone than how she said ‘PRT'. "I thought you said you were going to take a shower before company arrived."

Amy had been hovering on the border of puzzled and worried. Now she clamps down, her posture shrinking defensively as her expression turns completely neutral. Even her tone is apathetic now as she says, "I was gonna. They got here early."

Carol presses her lips into a thin line. Her body language has changed entirely from when she welcomed me in. She’s closed up, tense, and tired, in a way that makes both her and Amy look like they’re intruders in this house. Neither of them look like they belong around each other.

"We did get back way earlier than I said we would," Victoria cuts in, leaving the living room to walk into the front hall and drawing her mother’s attention back to her. "Lisa and I got into an argument, I mean even calling it an argument is exaggerating, but I had to bring her here to prove her wrong. Didn’t mean to mess up everyone else’s plans. Sorry, Ames."

She pats her sister on the arm. I know Amy must be really feeling bad because she doesn’t react to the touch. Victoria isn't oblivious to the tension, far from it. The only reason she can be this nonchalant about this insane atmosphere is that she’s had to mediate these kinds of situations almost every day of her life for at least the last few years.

It’s sad.

Her mom doesn’t stand down right away. There's a moment where I wonder if I'm about to witness a murder—whose I don't know—but Carol backs off from whatever precipice she had been about to hurl the conversation over.

"Just make yourself presentable for company," she sighs, relaxing just a touch before glancing between her daughters. “Have either of you heard from Mark?”

“No,” they answer in unison.

“Typical,” Carol mutters. “I suppose I’m the one cooking tonight, then. Alright.”

Amy takes Carol’s indifference as permission to leave and retreats back up the stairs. The room finally thaws once she vanishes. Carol finally turns back to find me, which takes a moment. I had reverted to base programming, keeping all my exits in sight and ready to run, while not-quite hiding by the coat tree and trying to slowly turn invisible. She gives me an indulgent smile.

"I won't keep you two any longer, but it's nice to finally get to see the friend Victoria's been so excited about."

"Thank you," I say, smiling back. What was I supposed to call her? Carol? Miss Dallon? Ma'am? I decide to ignore that question by pivoting. "I appreciate the invitation to dinner."

"She's been eating nothing but PRT cafeteria food," Victoria says darkly as she grabs my hand to lead me deeper into the house. As soon as she knows her face is out of her mom’s line of sight, I can see her grimace.

"As if they hadn't done enough to you," Carol says. "You're welcome here any time you need a respite from that."

I think I already need a respite from her. I’d take shitty cafeteria food over whatever that was any day. I'm more than happy to trail along after Victoria as we flee up the narrow staircase and along the narrow hall to the sanctuary of her room.

I’d prepared myself to deal with Amy being a pill tonight. She's always prickly, and I had picked up on enough to know it was only going to get worse at home. Nothing I couldn't handle.

I hadn't thought to prepare for this. No one said anything, but we were all thinking it. I’d displaced Amy as her mother's second-favourite daughter the moment I stepped through the door.

Notes:

So, this chapter has perhaps the most significant and most important depature from canon. Canonically there is no inlet and river through the city, but that is incredibly dumb. This is a New England port, competing with some of the finest natural harbours in the entire world. It shouldn't look like something South Carolina would be embarrassed by.

More on topic, this entire segment is of course brought to you by one of my favourite pieces of Worm fanart ever.
I'd say that a lot of this chapter is queer even by the standards of this fic, but it's actually basically just paraphrasing some of their earliest canonical dialogue. Those two started flirting with each other at first sight and basically never stopped. The only real difference here is they skipped the murder attempts. To quote,

“Or what?” Tattletale whirled to face the girl, smiling, “You’ll beat me up? You can’t do anything while my teammate has a knife to your sister’s throat. Sit. Stay. Good girl.”

And it only gets progressively flirtier throughout Ward, especially. The two have chemistry.

Anyhow. One of the things I've been a bit concerned about with this is how long it's turning out to be. We're edging close towards six digit word counts, and while a fair bit has happened it was still something that was nibbling on the back of my brain. So, being who I am, I fired up RStudio and did some data analysis and it turns out I'm probably going faster than Worm itself, or comparably at least. The bank was ~40-80k words in, so pretty comparable with the first excursions Vixen was doing over arc 2, and the character relationships are going much quicker (I think). It helps that I don't have to infodump about the world.

Anyways, I'm feeling a bit more comfortable about my choice of pacing now, which is nice. This might be long, but it'll still be way shorter than actual Worm by several times (I expect). Thanks as always to ether who never doubted me in this regard, even when I was doubting myself, and who also vastly improved this chapter in a number of ways. It's gone through fewer structural changes than many, but the cleanup was immense, and it had a couple key things improved that make it hang together much more cleanly.

Chapter 16: Encryption 2.9

“Sit anywhere,” Victoria says, as she ushers me into her room.

‘Anywhere’ doesn’t cover much ground. I'm surprised how small it is. Victoria is already heading for her desk chair which leaves just the floor or her bed. Despite its size, the place is full of personality. Definitely more so than my room back home, to say nothing of my PRT dorm. I feel like I could’ve described it even before setting foot here, like it never could’ve been any other way.

Her bookcase is stuffed so full that some of the shelves are bowing under the weight. Novels, history books, magazines, comics, the spines all worn with use: everything she’s read since she was a little girl, none of it stowed away or discarded. Most of it by weight is an eclectic range of non-fiction, showing a steady progression from kid's books about Greek myths to English class anthologies to a well-thumbed collection of classic and cutting edge parahuman studies.

Her desk is cluttered, but not in a dirty or messy way, just her collected thoughts and hobbies enshrining the little school laptop that probably has no use beyond being a portable word processor. A no-frills filing cabinet is tucked underneath, the only new-ish piece of furniture in the room. Hanging behind the desk on the wall is a satellite map of the Bay, largely covered with multicolored pins and ringed by post-it notes that I’ll decipher later.

Any horizontal surface that isn’t used for books has been repurposed as a showcase for her awards and decorations. I can spot a dozen athletics trophies from her pre-cape days.

Trophy collection: drive to succeed. Seeking external symbols of validation. Seeking parental—

Holy shit, do I need to stop prying. I’m already uncomfortable enough being in the same house as Brandish. I forcibly peel my attention away and look at her bed. It’s a twin—anything larger wouldn’t fit—and she made it this morning, not wanting to embarrass herself with a messy room when I arrived. It also looks a hell of a lot more comfortable than my dorm-room cot, so I flop myself down, faceplanting directly on it.

"Oh my god, your bed is so nice," I say, the comforter muffling my voice as I melt into it.

"You’ve been sleeping in those shitty Wards HQ beds. It's not a high bar to clear."

I roll over onto my side, giving her a searching look.

"How do you know what the beds there are like?" She immediately goes a delicate shade of pink. “Yeah, that’s right, be embarrassed! Even if you didn’t say it, you made me think it! Never mind. We're both going to pretend you never said that."

Victoria coughs, properly chastened, then obliges me in the worst possible way. "So, do you want me to get my mother to sign a poster for you?"

I make a noise. It's not a wail of mortification, but she'd be forgiven for mistaking it for one. "Not one word."

"She'd probably jump at the chance. Make it out to you with a dedication like, To my biggest admirer, may your brilliance always shine like an inspiring beacon. Inspiringly, Brandish. Then a bunch of hearts."

I look up at her with wounded eyes.

"What did I ever do to you?"

Her hum is far too self-satisfied and amused for my comfort.

"Where do I start? Oh! Actually come to think, if you still haven't figured out any other solution for the guardian situation, I bet she’d be eager to volunteer," she says, her smile widening. It still scans as a bit rueful to me. “If you feel like making Amy’s head literally explode.”

I see an opportunity to deflect and I seize it, pushing myself up onto my shoulder so I can look at her more directly. "I was actually thinking about asking someone a lot less weird. Piggot."

Victoria looks at me like I'm crazy. She does that a lot and it's lost most of its power over me by now. I just grin back at her.

"Can you imagine how great that would be? She's chewing me out for something and I just look at her, like, you can’t tell me what to do, you're not my real mom!"

I love making Victoria laugh. It's not all that hard—she's very free with her laughter—but I still enjoy hearing it every time.

"That would be twisted," she says. I only have a moment to relax, though, as now she's looking at me intently, her lips pursed.

I drop myself down onto my back before my shoulder starts complaining. "Just say whatever you’re thinking, Victoria. Don’t make me figure it out myself."

She's still hemming and hawing. That's probably not a good sign, but I give her a minute before I resort to prying. She gives in before I have to.

"What exactly are you waiting for? I don't think you'd actually want to live here, and unless you've been keeping a bunch of alternatives in your back pocket…"

She trails off without saying what's actually on her mind. Of course. I sigh, staring up at the ceiling.

"It's complicated, all right?"

"If you say so." She pauses for a moment, then pushes herself up out of her chair and floats a foot or two closer to me until she alights on the bed by my waist. "Look, I'm just pointing out that you weren't taking the bus to school."

I grab one of her pillows to dramatically drop it over my face so I can make a properly muffled noise of complaint. She grabs it back, depriving me of my hiding place. I glare at her in faux irritation.

"You have been thinking about it, right?" Her brows are knit together and she sounds like she's just now considering the possibility that I’ve been ignoring the problem entirely. In all fairness, it wouldn't be the first time.

I push myself up and away from her slightly and into a sitting position against the headboard. I generally tolerate Victoria needling me. That tolerance unfortunately leads to an annoying tendency for her to spot when I'm deflecting or lying. She'd definitely catch it here.

"I like Assault, okay? It's nice to have someone in my life who hasn't been an overbearing asshole."

Her brows knit further and I can see her posture change to something more guarded.

"You don't count, obviously, and you know why it's different." I say, pushing a strand of hair out of my face. I never really fixed it after the flight. Victoria reaches over and brushes it back herself, the fingers of one hand working to untangle it as she does so. “You’re a peer, not an authority figure. You don’t tell me what to do.”

“I could start,” she offers with a grin.

“You could try.”

“Succeed, you mean. There’d be some big changes around here, believe me.”

I roll my eyes at her. “Also, I think he’s like twenty one or something? That’s insanely young to be looking after, let’s be honest, a mean superpowered teenager.”

“I don’t think you’re mean,” Victoria protests.

"Seriously, though. He’s the one adult-style person around me who isn’t constantly breathing down my neck. It'd really suck to fuck that up, y'know?"

I can see the temptation to disagree growing on her face. It builds as she searches for how to politely tell me I'm full of shit.

"I don't think it'd have to be that way," she starts, and I feel like shutting that train of thought down quick.

"You don't? Authority is a great and healthy thing to introduce to a relationship, and you’d know, right? After all, Amy seems to get along great with your mother."

Victoria visibly winces, pulls her hand back from my hair.

"Amy's…" She trails off, looking hurt. It’s not a fresh hurt, and it’s one that she was already feeling, but I’ve still jabbed at an open wound. I probably went too far, but now I'm stuck.

"Having a difficult time, yeah. You've said as much." Her expression goes frowny and I hold my hands up in front of me defensively. "Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I get along with both of them just fine."

The exaggerated gesture seems to disarm her, and she realises how prickly she was about to get with me. Justifiably so, but instead of snapping she demonstrates once again that I really don't deserve a friend like her. For some reason, she apologises to me.

"I'm sorry. Our family… it's complicated."

I let that sit there in the air as I try to divine what she means. Is she mirroring my phrasing as an invitation, or as a warning not to ask more?

Posture tense, conflicted. Uncertain.

Great, so she doesn't know either.

"She and your mother don't see eye to eye," I hedge. If she doesn't want to talk about this she can deflect easily enough.

Victoria stares at her lap, glancing up at me a few times. "I guess you already know all about it."

Dammit, it's not fair for her to hedge back at me. I take in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. At least we're no longer examining my problems.

"Not all that much, actually. It's this new thing I've been trying; asking people about their feelings instead of spying on them." I pause for a moment, then add, "It's awful. I don't recommend it."

She smiles, but it's a sad one. "Living like this… it just really sucks. Carol is busy and tired all the time, and Mark is kind of too busy with his own shit to help her, unless they’re both in costume. That’s the only time they look like a team for real. Then because Carol is overworked, I think, she lashes out at Amy. Not me. It’s not fair. Everyone’s having a hard time and I want to help but I don’t know what to do about it."

"My therapist would say it's a bad idea to bottle that up, Vicky,” I tell her. I hate when she looks like this, so morose and vulnerable. “Probably. I wasn't really paying attention."

That does pull Victoria out of whatever doom loop she's sliding into. I feel a momentary relief. Hard to know when levity will only turn a mood more sour.

"I'm still surprised you even do therapy."

"I don't. Legal requirement. We don't get along," I say.

"Yeah, I bet." Her smile is a little bit more like the kind I like from her, a little more full of herself. It fades as the silence drags out again. I watch her run a hand along her thigh down to rub her knee, fingers working in patterns like she's still working the tangles out of my hair.

"It's hard to even talk about this without feeling like I'm taking sides... I keep trying to think of how to put it and no matter what I sound awful."

She steals another glance at me, then goes back to staring at her lap. "Sometimes it feels like Amy isn't even trying. Like, I've told her that she really shouldn't be using my shampoo, our hair is totally different. When I finally got her to use something else she chose this 3-in-1 nightmare that's honestly worse and half the time she doesn't even use it."

She grimaces, her entire body tensing as she curls in on herself. She's never given voice to any of these thoughts.

"And see? Now I sound like that bitch taking shots at Kayla for things that weren't her fault." She shakes her head. "I love Amy and I know she's doing her best, and I know Carol can be critical, and I know everything's going to get better. It's just really hard to feel that way sometimes, y'know?"

I don't know how she can believe that. I've never believed anything was going to get better, not for as long as I can remember anyhow.

I lay my hand on hers and squeeze gently as I say, "I don't think you sound like you're taking sides."

It must not have been the comfort she was expecting, if she was expecting any at all. She looks up at me with her deep blue eyes and I feel like I'm being dragged underwater.

"You sound overwhelmed to me. It's not your job to fix Amy's hair or any of other her problems, no matter whose fault they are. It’s not your job to keep your mom from being insane about her either. Or maybe it is, but it shouldn't be, and that sucks in its own way." I look away, trying to turn the knot of emotions I'm feeling into words. Something more helpful than it sucks, but I come up with nothing.

I give her hand another squeeze and look over at her, catching her just as she looks up at me. "They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They don't mean to but they do. They fill you with the faults they had and add some extra, just for you."

"Is that a poem?"

"'This Be the Verse'," I say, giving her the answer as she gives me an incredulous look. I look away and gesture with my free hand towards her bookshelf. "I used to read a little, before I ran away from home. I wasn’t exactly reading scientific journals or getting a headstart on my college textbooks, but I read a bit of poetry here and there. I wish I had better answers for you than half-remembered rhymes."

She opens her mouth, about to say something to soothe my ego, but has the good sense to read the room and stop herself.

"If you want to talk about anything sometime…"

I trail off and the silence goes on for longer than it should. She's actually considering it, which is a terrible idea on her part. It was a terrible idea for me to suggest it. I’m probably the worst person to confide in about these kinds of things, for a million different reasons.

"Maybe…" she says. "Maybe later. Right before dinner might not be the time, though."

"Yeah, probably not," I agree as we lapse into silence again.

The moment drags on. There's something more here that I’m missing, something important left unsaid. I don't know what it is, and Victoria doesn't seem to either, so I can’t steal any understanding from her, not without digging real deep. All I really know is that at some point in the last minute, without me noticing, one of us slipped our fingers past the other's. Now she’s holding onto my hand tight, with no intention to let go any time soon.

Eventually I can't stand it anymore.

"So, wasn’t I supposed to be exposing you as a liar? Go get your backpack out."

"Oh! Right, that." She's just as happy for the distraction as I am, and lets go of my hand at last. She bounces up off the bed—literally launching herself into the air and floating in an arc across the room towards her closet.

I take the moment to lay back into her pillows, closing my eyes as I finally breathe. Didn’t even know I was holding my breath.

What a mess. Can't wait for dinner.

Victoria is also using the moment to collect herself. She’s taking far longer than she needs to retrieve her pack from the hook on the inside of her closet door. It’s not so crowded in there that she can justifiably waste this much time, though I do catch a glimpse of more maps, another filing cabinet, and even more of her cape-related stuff. She comes back from her closet looking a bit more herself as she passes the bag over to me, then returns to lean against the door and watch my reaction.

I've seen it dozens of times before and remember the general outline of the forest of patches and pins she has, but I've never really looked all that closely. I used it as a primer for my power once or twice, but that was just a glance to get things rolling.

I squint, examining the field of enamel closely. I can see at a glance that she was telling the truth, but that wasn't really ever in doubt. I just like getting on her case. Now I can clearly see her sister's right there in the middle—two different versions of Panacea's healer emblem, actually. Vista's green swirly. A little winter flurry that I'm guessing is the recently graduated Snowdrift. Then there’s one more that I almost recognize.

"Oh, hey, it's me." I run my finger along the enamel edge of the graceful brushstroke lines of my stylised fox. I haven’t seen this bit of merch before. I’m adorable.

"Yeah, official inaugural version and everything. I've got a spare, just in case it ever needs replacing. Like I said, I've got all the girls from the Bay Wards."

"Mmm, that explains what Battery's doing here," I say. I hesitate, lingering over one of… Cerberus? "This isn’t one of my teammates."

"It's not, just a pin I picked up on the Boardwalk and repurposed."

I spend a moment working out the puzzle she’s put in front of me before looking up at her. "Pretty sure Hellhound's never been in the Wards."

Victoria shrugs. "No, but I've got some other Bay girls too. She's basically a more violent version of you, pre-Wards."

I raise an eyebrow at her.

"No, think about it,” she says. “Teen parahuman girl, living on the street, having to rely on a power a little less surgical than yours to make ends meet."

I tilt my head to one side, and I can see Victoria's confidence begin to falter. She loses her easy open stance and stops being able to meet my eyes. She's always been very careful to dance around discussing my past before, never asking about my recent stint of homelessness or whatever it is she thinks came before then. Even making even a comparison and asking about me by implication is pretty daring, only brought on by my own reference to my past.

I could smother this, if I wanted to. I could say something venomous enough in response that she would never go there again.

"Sure, I see where you're coming from," I say after a moment. "But I was more of a ‘bank fraud’ kind of street criminal than the 'aggravated robbery with a dog’ kind."

She looks at once relieved and conflicted at how I put that, leaning against her closet door with a frown.

"Oh, come on, you had to know," I say. "You know that I'm on probation, and do I look like the kind of girl to go hungry when I can lift some rich asshole's credit card instead? It's not like I was really hurting anyone."

That might be a little bit of an exaggeration. I probably hurt some people in the aggregate. It does ease her conscience enough that she can at least try to turn it into a joke.

"Hmm. I think my view of you is permanently shattered," she says, shaking her head in mock dismay.

"Yeah, because it's so hard to forgive petty theft. I should have maimed someone instead."

Okay, that might have been a bit much. Victoria freezes. She thinks I’m throwing this back at her.

"You mean like Hellhound, right?" Victoria isn't quite glaring at me, but she's not not glaring.

"Allegedly, if it helps?" I say, backtracking as delicately as I can. It kinda works—Victoria sighs, and her expression does soften somewhat.

"I did do my research before I got a pin for her, you know," she says.

“Of course you researched every cape in the Bay, even the new arrivals,” I say, gesturing around at some of her notes scattered about. “Wow. Shocking.”

“Hush,” she says, reaching into her closet to throw a folded-up shirt at me. I raise my hands into a high guard to stop it from hitting me square in the face. "The woman who died was her foster mother, and there's reason to believe that she died during Hellhound's trigger event."

She lets the implication hang in the air for a long moment. I remember how little I’d understood of my power in the days after triggering, despite lucking into one that lets me understand everything. If I’d had something a bit more directly harmful…

Alright, fine, I see her point.

"And I'm not saying she's a wonderful person or anything," she goes on after a minute of silence, walking back over to sit once more on the foot of her bed. "She did kill someone, but the fact that it was during her trigger is a big mitigating factor in the eyes of the law. I haven’t heard that she’s killed anyone since. Now she volunteers at dog shelters and robs liquor stores."

"Sounds like good clean fun."

"Yeah, it's one of her less charming traits, but you yourself were just talking about how it's either that or go hungry." I raise an eyebrow at her and she shoves my leg, registering a complaint at the expression, but quits the act all the same. "She's got a fansite that tries to document where she got her dogs from, and she definitely did some volunteering given the photos they have. She got powers when she was thirteen, and she's still our age, y'know? Shadow Stalker is a similar case—she triggered with a Breaker-Mover power at about the same age, showing up on the scene lashing out and trying to look strong. A Breaker-Mover power."

Instead of the reaction she was hoping for, I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Honey, I know that means something to you, but…"

"Sorry, sorry." She takes a deep breath, her lips twitching slightly as she thinks through how to explain this. "Okay, so, trigger events are complicated. The exact same thing could happen to two different people and they’d trigger with two different powers. In the moment we trigger, powers somehow access beliefs, and emotions, and what we think we need. Mover powers are simple, usually. Sometimes they’re about where you need to get to, but way more often they’re about what you need to get away from.”

I nod, thinking about Victoria and her flight and all the things she might want to get away from. I could interject, ask her. I don’t and she goes on.

"Breaker triggers are rarer, and more complicated. This isn't an exact science, especially for ones like that, but, how should I say this… ‘I can’t deal with the world, so the world needs to change.’ So what happened to Stalker? Something fucked up happened, and she couldn't cope emotionally, or couldn't come to terms with what was happening, and she just needed to get away from it. She couldn’t handle being stuck, or scared, or hurt or trapped, so she just stopped being… anything at all. Like smoke."

I feel a little tingling chill as she trails off with a shrug. I do some mental math, thinking about trigger events and when Shadow Stalker hit the streets. I let out a breath. Whatever happened, Sophia would have been twelve at the time. There are a few ways I can fill in those blanks, and I don't like any of them.

"Shit..."

"Yeah," Victoria agrees. "Then she shows up with her hockey mask, trying to look tough and like nothing can ever hurt her while she starts putting Nazis in the hospital. I'm willing to extend her some benefit of the doubt."

“You’ve thought about this before a lot. Probably when putting Stalker's pin on," I say while poking at one that I'm pretty sure is for her. "Hey, don’t tell anyone this, but you’ll have to replace it soon.”

Victoria grins. “She’s joining the Wards? Amazing! Where did you hear that?”

“A little fox told me.”

“Cute. I’ll probably keep that old one as a memento of her early years, add on her official one whenever it comes out.”

I nod, staring at the purple enamel of her Vixen fox pin, and ask, "Have you ever thought about doing me?"

Victoria freezes like a deer in the headlights.

“Well, aren’t you looking guilty. Now I need to know what you thought. Whatever it was, I won't be offended, promise."

"There was something that was really important that you needed to figure out," she says. She stops, shifting in place and struggling to meet my gaze.

I roll my eyes and poke her in the chest.

"What are you, a fortune-teller? Do it for real. I promise I won’t be weird about it. Besides, I'll know if you're faking. If you don't say something I'm just gonna poke around on my own, and who knows how that'll end. Curiosity is pretty bad for foxes too."

“We’re talking about your power and your trigger… right?” she asks. The trepidation is still there, but as I give her a thumbs up, she takes a deep fortifying breath and relents.

"Okay… okay. So. Um. Pure Thinker, usually means it was a lot of emotional stress all at once," she says after gathering her courage. “You're hard to pin down. You've kinda got a bit of everything, powers-wise, and normally Thinkers aren't as versatile as you are. You’re strong."

"Thank you for noticing," I say with a grin. She's setting me up so that I'm less likely to take whatever she says next badly, but I let her keep her momentum anyway.

She takes a breath. "Powers… a lot of times, it feels like they have a sense of humour. There’s an irony to them, where they’re often the exact thing that would’ve solved your entire life, if you’d only had them before you went and triggered. So for you? I think you missed something. I don't know what it was, because you aren't giving me much to go on, but it was something really important. Missing one tiny detail messed up your life enough that you could never let yourself miss anything else, ever again. Your parents made you feel like shit for it, made you feel like you could never forgive yourself, whatever it was, or maybe they tried to exploit your power for themselves? I’ve heard of that happening. You decided you couldn’t take it anymore, and then you left."

"Oh,” I say, trying to figure out what to do with this and how I feel about it, and I stare at her for a good long while. She smiles back at me nervously.

"I can't guess the specifics—your power is really broad and that's not great for hints. I’m only guessing about your parents because, well, you said you ran away from home. It wasn't too hard to put together that they were shitheads, and, um."

"I'm not upset, hon,” I say, reaching out and placing my hand on her arm before she starts babbling. “I literally just asked you to tell me."

I'm actually surprised at how not-upset I'm feeling right now. She really was pretty vague, maybe that’s why. I’m impressed, but she definitely took a wrong turn or two. That's probably it.

"Anyways, I take your point," I say. "Hellhound, Stalker, Vixen, we're all sad sacks just waiting for a kind-hearted stranger to set us on the right path. Although, hate to break it to you, but you need an update on Hellhound. She joined a gang a few weeks ago."

Victoria looks downright heartbroken. "No, really? I could have sworn she was going to end up like Shadow Stalker eventually, another anti-fascist vigilante."

I give her an apologetic smile. "She teamed up with that jobber Grue and some newcomers, and the group’s calling themselves the Undersiders. If it makes you feel any better, she's not peddling drugs or doing any real hardened supervillain stuff. Their only confirmed score was burglarising an accountancy firm’s offices. We think they were hired to do some kind of corporate sabotage."

That doesn't help her mood all that much. Victoria's staring at the cerberus pin.

"Oh, keep it for now. No one will know it's her. If you're willing to overlook the outstanding warrant, you can overlook this.” Victoria is already pulling the pin from the bag. Now she stares down at the dog heads, looking unsure of herself. “You can demote her later, if she starts really going down a bad path. She's not the only girl with questionable morals you've got on there. Just look at me."

"I guess I can’t be picky about a little corporate espionage now and then,” she says, balling the pin up in a fist. “It's still sad. You’ve missed your chance to form a clique of misfit girlies from the streets with Shadow Stalker and Hellhound."

"Are you suggesting that I form a gang?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

It finally breaks the lingering awkward tension, for which I am eternally grateful. She grins.

"A vigilante group. I'd join, but I already have one of my own."

My eyebrow's already arched so I have to comically exaggerate the gesture.

"Technically New Wave is a corporate team," she says as she leans closer, lowering her voice and glancing towards the door. I reflexively lean in close as well until our hair is brushing together. "But corporate teams actually have a lot of restrictions on them that we kind of… ignore? Most of them are more entertainment or business-focused, and they cover their costumes with ads. Some are publicly owned, which is another whole mess. They’re usually a lot less about life-on-the-line heroics. That doesn't really make money. The only reason New Wave is afloat is because my mom is really good at monetising her image."

"Oh, so that's your wicked scheme?” I whisper. “Getting in my good graces so I can run interference for you inside the Protectorate?"

"I mean, you did just admit to bank fraud. What's a little graft?"

"You could corrupt me very easily," I admit. "If you wanted to get a head start, my birthday's in like a month. That's a great opportunity for bribes."

She pauses, doing some calendrical arithmetic in her head. Wait, crap, I've never said anything about that. Oh no. I've just made a colossal mistake.

"Wait, it's coming up soon? I thought you were younger than me."

"We're in the same grade, so I'd be surprised if I weren't," I say. Might as well explain since I'm doomed anyways. "It's August 28th, right on the cutoff for the school year. I've always been the youngest in my grade."

She looks at me aghast, her mouth open and her eyes wide. She's so expressive. "It's your sixteenth in a month and you weren't even going to say anything?"

"Until recently I thought I was going to be celebrating my birthday alone with a gas station cupcake," I protest. "That is just beyond depressing and I was trying not to think about it too much. It hasn't really been high on my list of priorities since then."

Victoria looks at me with wide-eyed frustration and makes this cute little "nngh!" noise. "How could you betray my trust like that? I was going to make friendship bracelets with you."

"I’ll appoint you my official birthday party planner if you’ll forgive me?"

She looks at me suspiciously. "There will be karaoke. I will make you sing publicly."

"Joke's on you, I've had singing lessons."

“I’ll start working on the invite list then. Sorry, Hellhound, I’ve decided you’re not on it,” she says, looking down at where the pin is still clenched in her fist. “Not repping a gangster, so… into the trash you go.”

She leans away from me at last, raising both arms over her head like she’s shooting a three-pointer, and tosses the pin towards a little wastebin on the other side of the room. It bounces off the wall behind and misses the rim by at least a couple inches, going skittering across the floor.

“Crap.”

I give her a sidelong glance.

"Nice one, varsity."

Notes:

Whenever Lisa feels uncomfortable she goes on the attack. She bite.

Not to the dinner of doom yet, but Victoria had some things to say. She's only been on the page like four times before this, although I do try to make sure that when any character shows up, the scene ends with their relationship with Lisa fundamentally changed. Ether's been a great help there. She keeps me honest and makes sure I don't waste my readers' time.

Plus, there was some set up needing to be done for stuff later down the line. Dinner with the Dallons next time, and then after that is the last chapter in the arc. It might take a little bit longer to go up. I'm under the weather, and this week is going to be busy, but it will come. We are making (slow) progress!