Path to Munchies (Worm AU) (complete)

[Merle Corey]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Back with me, then, dear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smiling softly, I make my way home.

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler: Author’s note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Merle Corey]

Danny Hebert – Tuesday, January 11

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

It’s my fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

Taylor Hebert – Tuesday, January 11

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

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

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

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

I burst into giggles.

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

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

“Oh, hi, Dad. Working late again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the actual fuck.

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

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

“Canton Star, how I take your order?”

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

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

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

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

«Hebert, and we’ll be paying cash.»

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler: Author’s note

Danny’s inspirational quote is by Theodore Roosevelt.

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

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

 

[Merle Corey]

Can you please do this ?

You will get likes. All the likes.

Click to shrink...

I totally saw that request coming and plotted out what would have been involved in that path.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Merle Corey]

Is it still a double post 2.5 months later?

Totally not dead. I've been writing and rewriting the next section since October 29 (which, yes, was before I posted the previous part). I've struggled with it because it's a bit of a monologue/introspective/power exploration bit – "Ok, so, besides tormenting Kaiser with pie, what can I do?"

On further consideration, I'm dropping the whole segment. It's not actually plot essential, the one joke it was centered on setting up isn't that funny, and I can cover the bits that are plot relevant in other scenes. I’m adjusting the outline accordingly and reframing some other scenes.

For now, you get a "bits and pieces" non-chapter, as some of these amuse me enough to keep for posterity, even though they weren’t good enough to make the cut. These are absolutely non-canon in overall presentation, but may be things she’s considered.

--------​

On modifying the great pie plan...

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

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

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

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

Huzzah.

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

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

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

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

--------​

On PRT registration and power evaluation…

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

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

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

“Eight of hearts.”

“Miss, I haven’t drawn the next…”

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

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

“I’m only 27…”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fête.”

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

I nod. “Conference room 6.”

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

“Tea, please.”

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

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

--------​

On specificity...

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

Well.

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

--------​

On how sometimes losing is still winning…

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

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

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

…

Holy shit. My power comes with a personal trainer!

--------​

On history repeating…

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

 

[Merle Corey]

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

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

But now the silence is back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No! Bad Taylor!

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have a good afternoon, Mr. Hebert.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...the course of her…

 

[Merle Corey]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nods again and slumps in her chair.

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

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

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

She nods and says, “Alright. Sorry…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

“Kincaid…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

“It’s food planning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She sold me out, didn’t she.”

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

“About seven hours.”

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

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

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

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

Her jaw just drops. “She…! That…!”

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes go wide again. “Anything?”

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

“Taylor, that’s…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

What.

--------​

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

“What was your impression of Ms. Romano?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

“And what are you doing here this afternoon?”

“Estoy estudiando en la biblioteca con Tessa.”

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

 

[Merle Corey]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want to join the Wards.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Repercussions.”

And now I’m confused again. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

Gang war.

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

“Puppies!”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh boy. “Taylor…”

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

I frown. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

I nod. “You’ll do. What’s the plan?”

--------​

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

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

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

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

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t help.

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

5 seconds.

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

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

15 seconds.

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

30 seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you seen the electric pickle?”

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

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

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

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

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

120 seconds.

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead, Velocity. Over.”

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

“...seriously? Uh, over.”

“Seriously. Over.”

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

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

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

“Roger. Velocity out.”

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She just shrugs.

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

Spoiler: Author’s Note

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

The electric pickle:

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

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

 

[Merle Corey]

edit (2017-03-01 13:40 CST): Danny's 7am segment has been fleshed out more, but doesn't change the overall content. Minor touchups have been done throughout the rest.

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

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

Coil.

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

I drop my head on the table.

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

I nod. “And neither actually fixes anything.”

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

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

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

“Worse, how?”

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

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

I frown. “Which capes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest Emily,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever yours,
Coil​

...I think I’m going to be sick.

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

--------​

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

The field erupts in explosions.

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

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

--------​

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

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

“Director Piggot.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ma’am?”

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

...what.

--------​

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

--------​

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

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

Oh, good lord…

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

 

[Merle Corey]

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

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

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

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

She… shot me? But… I shot her first…

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

Oh. I think I’ll sit down now.

--------​

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

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

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

“I’m not sure…”

“How long since he suborned you?”

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

No.

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

Why…?

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

“Er… Sorry about this sir, ma’am.”

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

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

“Not exactly.”

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

Spoiler

Spoiler

--------​

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

Oh. I see.

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

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus, but this promises to be an unholy mess.

--------​

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

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

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

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

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

My dearest Emily…​

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

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

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

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

​

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

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

I nod, catch myself, and look around for…

Nope, no cameras.​

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

Spoiler

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

*knock* *knock*​

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

Snakey bastard truce? I brought breakfast!​

...and if I decline?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yep, but a bit weird at times.”

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

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

Spoiler: Author’s notes

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Merle Corey]

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

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

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

Public education.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright?”

I clamp down on the urge to shriek in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

I nod solemnly. “That was me.”

“That’s horrible!”

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

“Good for you!” she exclaims happily.

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

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

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

“Jordan!”

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

“I’m Jordan! Hello!”

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

--------​

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

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

Don’t be Sophia.

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

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

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

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

Don’t be Sophia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looks startled again. “How…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She did. Fans.

--------​

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

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

Wrong.

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

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

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

Really? That’s… that’s it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--------​

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

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

Spoiler: Author’s notes

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

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

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