Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Being a cape is a pretty weird experience when you stop and think about it. What’s the word I’m looking for… Surreal, or disjointed, maybe? Here we are, actual superheroes with powers, surrounded by people who have no idea who we are, living our everyday civilian lives with none the wiser. Well, for the most part.

I was in an oddly introspective mood as I sort of tuned out the rest of the people at the cafeteria table with me chattering away. I took a bite of the grinder I was holding in front of my face, elbows on the tabletop like an uncouth barbarian. Bliss.

School lunches are really hit or miss most of the time, but the one thing they sorta do right here at Arcadia is the sandwiches. This is absolutely worth the upcharge price of admission. Fuck.

My sister, Melody, sitting directly opposite me at the table, nudged my foot under the table to discreetly get my attention. My attention shifted to her from the unfocused part of the wall across the dining hall I’d been staring off into while munching away. She shot me a purposeful look then glanced over my shoulder to indicate whatever it was that I’d missed while spacing out. Putting my sandwich down on my scuffed dining tray and flicking some of my hair back over my shoulder, I twisted partially and looked.

Oh!

Amy Dallon was standing behind the empty seat next to me deliberately not looking at it, or really the rest of the table, her lips moving like she was trying to say something, but anything she was saying was drowned out by the general racket in the cafeteria. Her eyes were darting around and she sorta looked like a deer about to bolt, then we made eye contact. I laughed out loud and pushed the empty seat next to me back for her to take a seat in.

Poor girl has the worst social anxiety I’ve ever seen, I swear. It’s funny but in an endearing way.

“Amy! What are you doing, you goober, just pull up a chair!” I said with a theatric eye-roll at her, picked my sandwich back up, and took a fairly unladylike chomp out of it as she settled in.

Glad to have her sitting here and maybe socializing rather than sitting off in the corner and brooding like Shadow Stalker or something. Barely audible over the background noise, I heard: “Thanks for that” come from my opposite side. Today I was sitting next to Victoria Dallon, the real-deal Glory Girl herself, and Amy’s sister. It was pretty common for us to eat lunch together. I glanced sideways over her while munching and shot her a wink. She glanced skyward and snorted before going back to her previous conversation involving most of the rest of the contents of the table.

Turning my attention back to Amy, I glanced at what was on her tray and decided to tease her over it. Despite being a socially anxious mess most of the time, she has a wicked wit and great sarcastic humor.

“Chicken tendies and crinkle cut fries? And you don’t even have the common decency to get barbeque sauce for the tenders? You wound me, Amy. I don’t know if I can tolerate such questionable taste.”

Amy for her part only missed a beat before squinting back at me and responding: “I won’t apologize. Honey mustard is vastly superior to barbeque.” She stressed the last word, mocking my favorite. I was about to intercept that ball in my court when Melody interjected from the other side of the table, agreeing with Amy.

“She’s got you there, Morg. Honey mustard is obviously the better choice.”

I sighed loudly and nudged Victoria with my elbow.

Come on, GG. Let’s tie this and then we can take it to overtime.

“Uhh… Sorry, but I think ranch is the best.”

Collectively the three of us swiveled our necks and leveled our gazes at Victoria. We all spoke nearly in unison. “Ugh.”

“No. Just. No.” “Gross.”

The rest of the Wards sitting at the table and their friends looked down to the end where the four of us were seated with a lack of uncomprehension and bewilderment as to what this sideshow argument was about. The table, collectively, was quiet for a moment, and Victoria raised her palms in surrender to the three of us. The four of us cracked up laughing and the rest of the table mostly shrugged and went back to gossiping.

I leaned over to Amy and whispered to her: “You might have won this battle, so I’ll retreat for now and you can take your victory, but while you’re celebrating, I’ll be doing a training montage. I’ll have my revenge. This isn’t over.”

Wrinkling up the freckled bridge of her nose, she mock-scoffed and whispered back conspiratorially: “You wish bird brain. Any time, any place, I have you dead to rights.”

Damn. She pulled out the Cyberkiller Two reference.

I was outgunned here in more ways than one. The girl had a knack for pop culture references and snappy comebacks when she was out of her shell. I changed tack. Popping a chip into my mouth and crunching on it a moment, I replied back in a more appropriate speaking volume to not be rude to our other tablemates.

“You know, I never got that saying. Like… Birds have pretty small brains, but they’re pretty smart generally, some of them are crazy smart. I saw a show on Corvids once, they are genuinely impressive!”

We wound up getting into a winding conversation for most of the rest of the lunch period, me and my sister chatting with Victoria and Amy about all sorts of topics only linked by the most threadbare of connections from topic to topic. Probably my influence shining through there on that. We got on the topic of trying to plan out hitting the movies again, either on the upcoming weekend or the one following, depending on our schedules. It was always tricky trying to get myself, Vicky, Amy, and Melody at the same place and same time together, but I tried hard to make it happen, and so did Victoria.

Schedules were a complicated thing when you were a teenage superhero. I was a Ward. Victoria and Amy were not, but were members of an independent superhero team, New Wave. They had their own struggles, but they were similar enough to what I experienced as a Ward that it was comparable. Melody was the odd one out, as she, thankfully, hadn’t had to go through a trigger event. I lived a double life as a Ward. Glory Girl and Panacea didn’t have secret identities as part of New Wave’s entire mask-off movement and belief. The three of us had major time commitments in the form of our superhero lives and work in addition to our school work. It was a delta between us and Melody, and it was something I was conscious of trying to work around.

I was very close with my sister. We’re fraternal twins, but looked and acted similarly enough for most of our lives that many people mistook us for being identical twins. A little over a year ago I had triggered and gained my powers, and things had changed for us because of it. It’s unavoidable, really. Similar to how many close siblings start to drift apart because of age gaps or the transition into adulthood and shifting life priorities. It’s often said that there’s no bigger life-altering even than having a trigger event, short of just dying. It’s not an exaggeration, either. Not in the least.

I looked over at Melody and smiled at her, and she grinned back. I felt a twinge in my chest at the sight. I wanted to spend time with her and do the things we always used to do together, but there wasn’t enough hours in the day. It hurt to think about.

I spoke up: “Yeah, I don’t know about the exact date and time, but we need to make this happen. This weekend or next weekend. I don’t even care what we watch or do, but let’s do it.” Victoria nodded firmly and Melody looked down at her phone at showtimes and events coming up in the next two weeks. Amy was quiet.

Of course.

“You’re coming, right, Amy?” I pressed her on it. Victoria and I were of a very similar mindset on stuff like this.

Amy looked down at her try and the two or three remaining and now cold-fries and flicked the corner of one to send it spinning in place. She mumbled a moment, then cleared her throat. “You know I have hospital and clinic duties and I really don’t want to leave people…” I’d heard this a dozen times, more than a dozen times already. I got it. Victoria got it. Hell, even Melody got it. You want to do good, as much good as you can, for as many people. But you needed personal time and to be able to live your own life. I wasn’t going to cut her off.

Waiting for her to finish, I reached over and poked her in the shoulder with one fingertip. She jolted a little and made eye contact with me.

“Amy, please. I’m not going to speak for anyone else, but I would really like it if you came out with us.” Melody and Victoria both voiced their agreement, and the mousey thing blushed, grumbled like a cranky codger, then sighed and nodded in assent.

Exposure and support. Thanks, Jessica.

We went back to planning with our remaining minutes. The period tone sounded over the loudspeakers and there was a racket as people stood up and started shuffling off to their next class. One of the other Wards, Carlos, beelined over to me as we got up. He’d been sitting at the other end of the table from us and was chatting with the rest of the table while us four at the other end had been doing our own thing.

“Yo, Morgan!” He called out to me and grinned. He was handsome, and had a great smile, but wasn’t really my type, not to mention the conflict of interest of being our team leader. “Going to be at the gym after school? I was hoping you’d be my spotter and we could spar some!”

As with many, or even most of the conversations we had in our civilian identities (and even some of the ones in costume,) our language was deeply steeped in double speak. Obfuscation and plausible deniability, speaking in perfectly understandable and relatable terms to the outside observer but with layered and nested meanings accessible to only those with the greater context.

Going to be at base after school? I’d like to do some training, but more one-on-one.

I countered back with a teasing rib: “I mean, maybe. I’m going to be in that part of town after school for a physical therapy appointment. Are you going to quit being a baby and actually spar this time?”

Yeah, I’m going to PHQ after classes, but do you really want to get taken back to school?

Dennis from our table, who was standing behind me as we shuffled out, burst out laughing and instigated: “Ooooh!”

Carlos didn’t miss a beat. “Listen, you might be on a bit of a winning streak at the moment, but you know that everyone falls off the top sooner or later! It’s the nature of things!”

I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a stern look, and only the wrinkle in my brow and the upturn of my mouth in the corner of my lips betrayed my seriousness. Maybe.

“Twelve matches, it’s ten-two, and last time I checked… Yeah, that was ten in a row.”

He rubbed the back of his head and sheepishly said: “So uhhh…” He glanced up at the drop ceiling tiles. “Best.. eleven out of twenty-one?”

“Man, that is just SAD!” Dennis crowed. Carlos groaned. I reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. My poor facade crumbled, and I relented with my gloating.

“Anytime, you know it. That’s what training is for, right? Gotta get better through practice! I just ah… gotta make sure my PT is good with it. Don’t want to aggravate my knee and all.” He nodded along with my cover story, and I made my way to my next class, economics.

The class was easy, or at least, I had a decent mind for the math and concepts, so I was able to let my mind wander some during lectures and note-taking. Bringing up my stupid cover story had put my mind on a bit of a downer path, causing uncomfortable and painful memories to bubble up to the surface.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with my knee, or the rest of me, for that matter. I was in the best shape of my life, and if I wanted to be, I’d be well on my way to a state or even national-level college athletics career. A bright, shining career with a ton of promise and lucrative future prospects. I didn’t give as much of a shit about the fame and spotlight, but I was deeply competitive. I thrived on the competition, the wins were euphoric, and the losses motivated me to train and study even harder.

But there was just one minor problem. I was a parahuman. I had a secret identity, but even beyond that, parahumans couldn’t participate in sports. Nothing beyond totally casual entertainment, and even then good luck finding anyone who’d play with you and run the risk of getting lit on fire or thrown 20 feet through the air when spirits got high in a match. Absolutely no parahumans allowed in any serious sporting events, not professionally, not semi-pro, nada. There wasn’t a magic meter or standardized test they could give us to certify we were or weren’t a parahuman, or to what extent our abilities may or may not interfere with matches in a fair and balanced manner. So no varsity, state, national or international organization wanted to wrestle with that basket of worms, and it was just a blanket ban. And there was a vested interest in many of the big sporting organizations to see that parahuman sports didn’t wind up becoming competition.

Cape culture existed for that. Cape shows, cape video games, cape films. Not to mention the most obvious, just turning on the news and seeing villains and heroes fighting over whatever it might be.

People go hard on that shit. They gobble it up, there is a huge demand for it. I mean, hell, we have an entire brand and merchandising division of the PRT entirely dedicated to it.

I didn’t have a problem with the cape culture aficionados. They could be a bit pushy, nerdy, or obsessive at times, but most of them were just people who were fans, no different than someone sitting in bleachers spectating and cheering for one team or another. My issue was that my plans for my life got entirely derailed when I triggered. Straight off a cliff into a ravine, cue crash and Hollywood explosion. Dreams of professional athletics dashed. Heroics and team fights filled the void quite well. I had a team and resources. I loved training and working with the far more experienced members of the Protectorate. Honestly, there were a lot of upsides that helped offset the baggage and some of the more burdensome aspects of it.

I glanced at the clock. The period was almost over. This was my last class of the day, although not the last class of the school day. Like some of the other Wards and independent minor capes, I was able to take some of my work off-campus and do it online for added scheduling flexibility. After all, I had a very important physical therapy session to attend soon. The class was called a couple of minutes before the bell, and I packed away my binder and textbook and shouldered my bag. Time to head over to PRT Headquarters out in the bay.

Chapter Text

Dad was driving me over today. Most of the time, the other Wards and I would walk over, taking various routes and hidden shortcuts, and access points to get to the building discreetly. It wasn’t a long drive; I could have walked or taken a bus, but I did appreciate the transport. We chatted back and forth during the drive. I had a pretty good relationship with all of my direct family, and we got along well. We were chatting about the weekend plans Melody and I had been trying to lock in as we pulled up to the parking garage entrance to the building.

Mirror glass-faced robotic scanners directed at the entrances and exits to the building scanned our car and license plates as we approached one of the gates that barred the traffic lanes. The system saved a ton of time checking in and out of the building, but more importantly, didn’t require us to get in and out in a public manner for anyone who might be snooping. Security for the building and the immediate perimeter was tight. The building wasn’t anywhere near as robust or fortified as The Rig in the bay, but that didn’t mean that security wasn’t tight, as well as placing a priority on identity protection.

Pulling up to the underground curb at this level’s subfloor entrance, my dad looked over at me and said, “You know, I probably should have made you drive over here, come to think of it. You need to get more time behind the wheel in downtown traffic under your belt if you’re going to ace the driving exam.”

I groaned. It wasn’t that I hated driving. Driving was fine, cool even. I just didn’t have the bandwidth to dedicate to putting as much time behind the steering wheel as Melody could. She was happy to drive more often than not when the opportunity presented itself, and I thought it was nice that she had something that she was way better at. I worried about how she might feel with the change in our dynamic after my trigger.

“I know, Dad, I’ll get more time in, we still have a good amount before the test.” I was booked for a road test in June for my full license.

“Just so long as you’re staying on top of it, Morgan! See you later, huh? We got someone pulling up behind us.”

“Love you, Dad. I’m doing some training with the team after my appointment, so I’m going to be home a bit later.”

“Have fun!” I grabbed my backpack and opened the door. My dad spoke up as I was about to close the door. “Try not to kick their asses too hard in training!”

An eye roll and thud later, I was through some doors, into the primary elevator banks, and scanning my very fancy PRT ID card for the restricted access areas. It sounded cheesy, but I liked the little stuff. My PRT ID badge had these complex holographic shield logos printed into it, and something about the holographic designs always caught my eye. Pulling my BBU lanyard out from the shoulder strap pocket I tucked it into, I clipped the little alligator-style snap clip into the slot on my ID card and tugged it over my head. Most people in the building knew who I was, but every so often, we’d get a real dickhead officer or guard who’d comment about a lack of visible ID on a Ward. Of course, never a peep when Protectorate capes strolled around, in uniform or otherwise. Stupid pecking-order games like that annoyed me.

My floor came up, and I stepped out. It was an admin floor on the upper half of the building, reserved for the various middle-management and administrative staff in the building. One of a few. Making my way along the corridors, I did my best to clear my head of anything on my back burner. I checked my phone, right on schedule, meaning early, and I stepped through the doors into the reception area. The secretary waved at me, and I smiled back at her. She tapped something on her keyboard and then glanced back from her screen to me.

“She’s ready for you. Head straight in whenever you’re ready!”

I stepped into the office.

“Ms. Rivera, welcome, have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Yamada,” I said, stressing the honorific and name.

Another game, just between the two of us, was a running gag. Mrs. Yamada wasn’t fond of most titles or aliases, and it was something she opined about somewhat regularly. I settled into a plush chair that wasn’t at all out of place in a pretty, warmly decorated, and furnished room. Leaning into the back, I flipped my hair over the front of my shoulder and rested my head against the backrest, closing my eyes for a moment. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Jessica waited a long moment before speaking. “Good day or bad day today?”

I kept my eyes closed. There was something peaceful about this room. Beyond the sound-dampened quiet and the sound of air cycling through the central ventilation. I suspected it was probably Jessica herself who was responsible.

“Uh, you know, pretty good if I had to summarize.”

“You look pretty tired, Morgan.”

“I am a little exhausted, but not too bad. Energy levels are good, motivation’s good, just a little fatigued feeling.”

“Under the weather or…?” She let the question fill the space. I took a moment to rub my temples and wrinkled my forehead to tighten the skin around my eyelids. I didn’t want to smudge my makeup by rubbing my eyes. I’d put on concealer this morning, and I’d like to think I did a pretty solid job of it. I was guessing Jessica was taking cues from my body language elsewhere, but she was hawk-eyed.

“Didn’t sleep well last night. Or the night before. Sorry. Last three nights, come to think of it.”

We, no, I was edging around discussions of my power, which was not going to be avoidable during this session. I was sure we’d get there in no time at all, and it wasn’t going to do me any good to turtle up my defenses or try and dodge the blows.

“Nightmares again? Do you want to talk about it? We can discuss something else if you’d like to.”

She’s so good at this. I really envy her. On some level, manipulation is the game here, but she never makes it feel that way. Not like some of the others.

Opening my eyes, I blinked a few times and looked back at her. “Not… precisely. No, I don’t think I’d call them nightmares, exactly. It’s not that they’re scary, I mean, sometimes they are, but I tend to call the ones that aren’t scary nightmares too because… You know. But not just because of that stuff, but because of the response, or maybe the way I feel? Aroused? Excited? Not uh-” I blushed a little and clarified: “Not sexually, I mean.”

“Energized, maybe? Engaged?”

“Yeah, something like that,” I nodded in agreement.

Jessica made a notation with the smooth sound of a pen on the notepaper. I looked at her blouse. It was a nice cream color with warm tones, and maybe just a hint of some pink. The material, probably some kind of polyester blend, had a very faint shimmer to it. It looked great, but also very comfortable.

“Do you remember much about any of them?”

Pursing my lips, I glanced up and thought back. “Bits and pieces, they’re exceptionally detailed, but they tend to be like, jumbled up, or something? They jump around a lot. Flying around. Something where it was incredibly hot, humid, and wet. Raining, and I remember the sensation of this big leaf or frond tipping down with some water and running down my back. It felt good. Uhm. The sort of stuff that usually tends to happen, too.”

Jessica wrote something else, then placed her pen on the pad and looked back up at me.

Uh-oh.

The chiding I was expecting didn’t come, or at least, not in the way I was expecting. She asked: “By stuff that usually tends to happen, do you mean hunting?”

I shut my eyes for a moment and nodded as an unbidden flash of the dream hit me.

Leaping down from a branch above, I dropped my weight on top of the snake-dog, my jaws already closing over its angular head. A flex of muscles made my teeth bite in, and crunching the creature’s skull in my mouth was trivially easy. The taste of tangy blood and rich, creamy brains filled my maw-

My breath caught in my throat, and I slumped in the chair, back in the office, safe, bound in reality and not in fantasy.

“I’m sorry, Morgan.”

I took a breath and let it out. “It’s not your fault, Jessica. I just wish that they weren’t so fucking vivid.”

“I don’t know if it helps any, but there are a number of medications that cause people to have dreams very similar to the ones you experience. So you’re not alone, it’s something that plenty of people, millions, even, experience on a somewhat regular basis.”

I cracked an eye at her before opening the other. “Really?”

She nodded to me and explained, “Many kinds of antidepressant medications can have effects almost identical to what you’re describing. And it’s not uncommon for people to have very vivid dreams because of that. They can be pleasant, or they can be terrifying in the case of nightmares, largely in part to their visceral nature.”

I smiled just a little bit. Hearing that did help a little. Not that it changed them or how they made me feel, but in hearing that, it was something other people had to deal with.

“Thanks. It does, a little.”

“Shall we discuss stuff while we’re on the subject of your sleeping lately and dreams?”

I bobbed my head. Not because I wanted to talk about it, but more because I knew that discussing my power was unavoidable, and I’d rather get it over with. Sort of like getting slammed into the mat. It’s going to happen sooner or later; sometimes it’s better to go in expecting it so you can properly respond.

“Have you had any opportunities to explore what we talked about last session? Maybe experimented a little with your ability to see how you feel about it?”

“I-” I really didn’t want to lie to her. We’d been clear about establishing how to best get myself set up for success, and obfuscation doesn’t actively help those efforts. And truthfully, I did want to get over my hangups with my power. Sighing loudly, I continued, truthfully: “A little but only in really minor ways that aren’t, you know, super useful or anything.”

Jessica offered me an encouraging smile. “Even minor ways are something. Little steps like that still matter. What kinds of things have you been experimenting with?”

I played with my fingertips with my hands together on my lap. Reluctantly, I offered: “I was playing with colors. Skin colors. Eye colors. At home, in private.”

“And how did that go?” There wasn’t any judgment in her voice, and the tone suggested that answering was optional.

“It..” I frowned a moment and looked up at her. “You know it actually went pretty well. I don’t know why, but some things are easier than others, and I guess that’s one of the easy ones.”

“By easy, do you mean in terms of the effort or the way it made you feel?”

I shook my head. “I mean that when I try and do something like that, I seem to basically always get the expected result with any unpleasant surprises or extras.”

"What you’re feeling is really common for parahumans, Morgan. A lot of people struggle with their powers, whether it’s fear, control, or just understanding how they work. But I can tell you with confidence that the people who improve? They get there through practice, testing, and, sometimes, a little trial and error."

I spoke out loud a nagging thought I’d had many times: “But what if someone gets hurt because of me? Because I can’t get the result I want when I need it the most?”

“That’s a completely valid fear. A lot of heroes–especially those in the Wards–worry about the what-ifs. But avoiding your power won’t make you more in control of it. If anything, the more familiar you are with what you can do, the more you’ll be able to trust yourself when it does matter. And that’s what we’re working towards. Giving you that confidence, little by little.”

I hummed a flat note under my breath and fidgeted with my fingers while Jessica took some notes. Without looking up, she spoke: “Try and think about the first time you learned a difficult technique, maybe a kick, or a takedown. At first, it felt awkward, and it could have been dangerous if you got it wrong. But you practiced, you built muscle memory, and eventually, you did it without actively thinking about it.”

That’s… actually a very good point, but… hrm.

“I don’t have to worry about people screaming bloody murder and terrorizing people if I misjudge a kick in practice and accidentally hurt someone.”

“Certainly, that’s true,” Jessica said with a nod. “But that’s also why a fighter doesn’t just throw their hardest strikes the moment they step into a gym. They practice slowly and deliberately, correcting and getting better control. They train with coaches and partners who help them refine their technique, so that when their real fight comes, they don’t rely on instinct or brute force, they’re relying on their skill.”

I considered, and she continued: “You’re afraid of making a mistake, and I understand why. But that’s all the more reason to practice now, in a setting where you have control, rather than in a moment you aren’t expecting, where you’re reacting without thinking.”

I nodded and made an effort to try and make a mental note of what she’d said. It sounded stupid, but my dumb jock's brain parsed what she was saying when she contextualized it in terms of a practice and structured match. The topic of my power was wearing on me a little; I’d want to get off it pretty soon.

She seemed to pick up on this vibe and asked me a sort of follow-up question: “Any unwanted or unprompted manifestations since we last spoke?”

I thought back and abruptly laughed upon remembering. She quirked an eyebrow at me. “I was brushing my teeth the other morning after getting out of bed and thinking about braiding my hair. It decided to braid itself.”

Jessica smiled, a big smile, one that reached her eyes. I sorta blankly stared at her response.

“Hair isn’t supposed to move itself, Jessica.”

She crossed one leg over the other and tapped her pen on her notepad. “Morgan, you’re a parahuman. There isn’t a hard and fast rulebook of how things should and shouldn’t be. What you think is strange and weird might be a perfectly average and unremarkable experience for another.”

I very dramatically rolled my eyes, but I think my grin gave away that I wasn’t too serious.

“I think we’ve covered some good ground today. It sounds like you’ve made good progress, too, even if you aren’t sure about it. Have you talked about any of this with your family, friends, or team?”

Well played. Caught me flat-footed again.

I let out a little huff. “Not… really, no. I don’t like talking about my power at all to my family, especially after some of the experiences we’ve been forced to share at bad times. Melody is good about not pressing, but she’s, of course, fascinated with my cape life. She’s too good to me; I don’t deserve her. I don’t have many friends left outside the Wards and some of the other capes in town.”

The admission stung a little when I thought about it, but it was true. Most of my other friends were athletic teammates, and losing that life was still a sore spot. Hanging out with them and hearing about their stories and seeing their progress hurt. I’d gotten distant, but I’d sorta slid into different social circles at the same time, during my ‘recovery.’

Continuing, I said: “I don’t like talking to the team about my power issues because I don’t want to seem like I’m weak or not in control of myself. Some of them depend on me. I’m second in command, I have to be steady, reliable, and there for them if Carlos goes down, or if I’m in the lead. If they ever thought I didn’t have their backs, always, and without question… I would be devastated.”

“I understand that you don’t want to feel like a burden on your family and that you feel a responsibility to your team. But keep in mind that trust goes both ways.”

She set her notepad aside and gave me her full attention. “Being a leader doesn’t mean having all the answers or being faultless. You know this; don’t allow your doubts to hinder you. They trust you; you can trust them. You’re not in this alone.” Her eyes glanced at her watch, one of those thin ones that toyed with the idea of being a decorative bracelet as much as it was a timekeeping device.

“I think that’s a good place to stop for today. But think about this, what would it feel like to let someone in, even just a little?”

I tongued my cheek in thought, then nodded and stood up. “Will you be here next week?”

Hoisting my backpack over one shoulder, I headed for the door.

“No, I’m going to be in Boston next week, and then the following week I’m at another PRT facility. Sorry- I know it’s a pain, and I’m not a fan of it either, but we’re making due filling shortages with district rotations.”

“Suuucks. You’re the best, Miss Yamada. The others are alright, I guess, but it’s not the same. Enjoy Boston, I’ve been wanting to visit the PRT teams there for the past year!”

“You’ve got my number, keep in touch and call if you need to talk about something. Never a burden.”

“I will. Speaking of burdens, I need to go deliver a reality check to a certain goober in red and white spandeez downstairs. My reign of terror has been challenged.” I laughed and waved over my shoulder as I headed out of the office.

Chapter Text

We had a pretty robust gym and training facility downstairs in the subfloors of the building. It wasn’t quite as opulent as the facility we had on The Rig, which had a lot of the tinkertech toys and the specialty stuff for brutes and the literal big guns. What we had here in the tower was anything but shabby by any stretch of the imagination, though. All the essentials of a proper and complete gym were present in sufficient quantity to service both teams here at East-North-East. They even had plenty of training equipment for people with low and mid-level brute ratings, which tended to be pretty niche in terms of specialty training equipment.

I hit the locker rooms, washed off my makeup, and got into my costume. Mine was one of the flashier ones, but still within Youth Guard regulations. It was basically like a dance leotard. It was snow white with a high neck and full sleeves. Piping ran down the tops of the sleeves, similar to a sports uniform, in a color I was told was ‘Orange Flame.’ Across the breast was a flaming phoenix flying straight up, and a fist and palm meeting together in the Chinese martial arts tradition. The symbol and the name, Phoenix Strike, weren’t my first choice.

PRT Marketing and Branding Division, ugh.

It was fine. The name was fine. White was a bad color for a costume; I was constantly getting dirty, and it didn’t look good. The symbol was sorta stupid considering Kung Fu wasn’t one of the martial arts I professed to have any level of proficiency in. Today I’d be wearing MMA-style fingerless padded gloves for training. On patrol, I wore hand wraps. They were mostly aesthetic. I grabbed a belt that was a halfway decent stand-in for my utility belt. I wasn’t going to wear the real thing for training, or my helmet, for that matter.

Chris–Kid Win–made my helmet for me. Real tinkertech, and it kicked ass. It enclosed my entire head from the neck up and was faceless and opaque. In addition to masking my identity by completely concealing my face, and protecting my head from impacts and bullets–I was thankful to have not had the opportunity to test that one in real combat–it also had voice manipulation programs, and I could see and hear through it perfectly fine through the sensors, interior displays, and relays. There was a neat, stylized bird head design on it, too, that matched my suit colors. Birds are cool.

I pulled on my thigh-high compression leggings and gave myself a once-over in the locker room mirrors before heading out. I was a weird mix of Phoenix Strike and Morgan Rivera right now, but I think it was a halfway decent look. Five-seven, one hundred and fifty-five pounds of blue-eyed blonde. Melody and I had more than a passing resemblance to Victoria Dallon and Miss Dallon. Or did she resemble us? Anyways. GG and I differed in a few ways. She was a touch taller than I was, and more than a touch more voluptuous. I was nearly positive I outweighed her, though, and I was noticeably more muscular than she was. We both looked good, it wasn’t a secret, and it wasn’t as big a deal as people made it out to be. I flipped myself off in the mirror and headed out to the gym floor barefoot.

Carlos was in the padded floor area, already dressed with a similar approach to what I was rocking, and Dennis was slumming it in shorts and a t-shirt, standing with him and chatting. I held a hand up in greeting and headed over to the two of them.

I asked: “Not participating today, Dennis?”

“Nah, I’m just here to stir the pot and cheerlead for whoever’s winning.”

“How are you gonna instigate your poor team and insult us in the same breath? Whoever’s winning? What happened to team unity, or heck, even just picking a favorite?” I pressed him in a teasing manner.

“I wouldn’t want anyone to accuse me of favoritism, of course. And I got a family thing soon, so I can’t be here long,” he replied.

I bobbed my head and said: “Fair, fair.” I looked over to Carlos and asked, “Are we expecting anyone else, or is this going to be it?”

Carlos smirked at me, saying, “Funny you asked, she just walked in.”

“She? Vis-”

He wouldn’t.

I glanced over at the entrance.

He did. Ugh.

Sophia Hess was making her way over at a snail’s pace, furiously texting away on her phone and looking like she didn’t care what else was going on. I turned back and did my very best not to scowl. I did give Carlos a heck of a glare, and he reacted by crossing his arms over his chest and calling out: “Hey, Sophia!”

I got it. She was technically a part of our team. She did deserve to come to training events and contribute to the team. And I wouldn’t have such an issue with her if she actually gave a shit. She wasn’t a Ward by choice. She got busted as a teenage caped vigilante and told she could join the Wards, or she could have a grand old time in juvie. She dragged her feet about everything, was always a drag on morale, and virtually always had a rotten-ass attitude towards everyone and everything. The one thing you could halfway rely on her to show up for was anything fighting-related. Guess we shared that in common. She’s still a bitch. But I won’t stoop to her level.

“Hey, Sophia!” I called out in a similar fashion. Dennis gave me a look. He got my feelings on her pretty well. He raised a hand and waved in a very half-assed way.

Sophia swiveled her phone closed and stuffed it into her bag, which she proceeded to drop on the mat a few feet away. Putting her hands on her hips, she regarded us a moment before speaking: “A clown, a zombie, and a knockoff walked into a bar…”

I think I heard Dennis mutter: “Oh god” or something of the sort under his breath before retorting: “Clowns are funny, right? I’ll take it, even if it is lacking creativity.”

“That’s Mister Zombie, or just Boss to you, missy,” Carlos said with a snicker.

Sophia stared expectantly at me. I suddenly blinked and looked around like something had happened.

“Eh?” She queried.

“Oh, sorry. I think Dennis froze me for a second just now. Did I miss something?” I got a “pfft” out of Dennis and a tongue-click out of Sophia. Good enough. I never claimed to be funny. My banter game wasn’t great, but I sorta didn’t really care about it, either. Probably my background showing through.

“So, Morgan, up for that rematch?” Carlos asked while rolling his neck and shoulders. I took the offered out.

“Yeah, let’s get into it. Anything specific you want to work on today, or just want to do some freeform work?” I set into my own stretches, taking the express route in the interest of not giving more time for a certain someone to shit-stir.

His response came quickly, along with a soft huff: “To be honest, I’m a little stressed and frustrated with school, and I’d like to just be able to take my mind off it for a bit. Freeform alright?”

Totally understandable. I wasn’t huge into the philosophical aspects of martial arts or what I considered to be the bunk science, but it was true that you could get into a zen state while you were dedicating your attention and focus to an opponent in the ring or on the mat. We finished a short limbering session and squared off. Traditions could be important, and I went through the motions out of respect. Clasping hands and a bow. Goes without saying that Carlos returned it; he was a great sportsman.

As we entered our respective stances, I sized him up. We’d fought a lot, but it was good to bring these things back to the forefront to remain mindful of them. Carlos was taller than me and had the reach advantage. He weighed more, although not to a dramatic extent. Small things mattered. The bigger picture thing here was our respective powers. We had some passing similarities.

Powers are bullshit. They’re cheating on some level, or hell, many levels, but not every power is created or manifests or whatever equally. I was stronger and faster than the average person. Part of that was training and dedication to the gym. Part of it was my power. I wasn’t supernaturally stronger or faster. I blurred the line between a very high-echelon athlete in peak form and a ‘real’ parahuman. I could hit hard as hell, much harder than someone my size and weight class would, but in a ‘still constrained by anatomy and the laws of physics’ way. I couldn’t bulldoze through a wall or throw a car like Glory Girl.

Carlos was stronger than I was. He was faster than I was. And he could fly. The so-called Alexandria package, just like Victoria: a Brute with flight powers. Carlos and I were both very durable, but he really outclassed me there. I’ve seen him fighting with an arm dislocated and a giant chunk of his tibia sticking out through his suit. I was pretty sure he still felt pain or had a sense for it that was abstracted, but he could fight through wounds that would incapacitate or outright kill people.

I was…robust. I certainly felt pain, but tended to work and fight through it as a result of a lot of training and not an ability. I couldn’t faceplant off a third-story building and dust myself off the way he could. I healed pretty quickly. By pretty quick, I mean minor and moderate wounds in minutes and hours, and stuff that was like, life-altering in a week or less. I liked to think of it more like self-repair than it was regeneration.

I’d seen videos online of some parahumans sprouting a new arm after losing theirs in the course of seconds, or even near-instantly. Not me, and not Carlos. Carlos had picked up a torn-off limb once and stuck it back on mid-fight, and it just… sorta worked? Thus, Sophia's trashy zombie comment earlier. A little nickname of hers that was mean-spirited in a way I didn’t approve of. I was very thankful for the fact that I’d never suffered a grievous wound like that in my career. A couple of broken bones, a few puncture wounds, and more bruises, cuts, and scrapes than I could count.

We commenced our fight with a loud clap from Dennis. Carlos came in on the offensive, and I kept my hands up and loose and held him off with leg work. I was feeling him out to see how he’d been coming along, and there was certainly progress. I broke into a grin. I liked seeing people improve and grow, and he’d come a long way, thanks in large part to the regular training. I also just really and truly loved fighting. I was an adrenaline junkie, and even though I wasn’t going to get that rush from this kind of fighting, I was still having genuine fun.

He kept trying to get into close range, and each time he did, I’d toe-step or shin-block his lower half. His first two victories over me had been largely because I didn’t understand his power, and his limits, or lack thereof. Submissions didn’t work on him. How are you going to get a submission victory on a guy who could ignore a fence post sticking through his abdomen, and who didn’t give a damn about having his arm dislocated? Didn’t work out so well. No, my lesson was simple: Traditional ways of stopping moves, attacks, and fights, and textbook plays weren’t entirely applicable. What did work was straight biomechanics. A bad angle or position to throw a punch was a bad angle. His muscles still had the same attachment points, and his bones and joints were rigid and generally within the same ranges.

I saw him shift his weight. He was going to go for a kick. His knee started to rise into a snap kick. I stepped in and kicked the foot he was positioning before he could get a swing started, and he stumbled momentarily and stepped back on the defensive. I didn’t press the advantage; I still wanted to feel him out. He advanced again, and I went to kick his strong leg thigh. His arm came down low and blocked my kick, and he stepped into fist range while I was recovering.

Good!

He threw a straight punch at my face. We weren’t going all out here and trying to hurt one another, but we established a while back that face and head strikes were acceptable if we both had the self-restraint to be responsible about it. I stood my ground to take the punch, grabbed his wrist in my hand, pressed the strike to the outside, and capitalized on the over-extension by shifting my grip into a grapple. I proceeded to throw him over my hip and into the mat flat on his back.

Dennis let out a whoop, and Sophia grunted. I glanced over and saw that she was rather intently paying attention.

Small victories. She saw me looking and crossed her arms over her chest.

Carlos and I went another four or five rounds back and forth. I had him pegged pretty well and was able to counter most of what he was going for, but that wasn’t the point. The practice, building reactions so you didn’t have to think about them, and really, just cutting loose and having fun was more important. All of which we accomplished. He had a sweat worked up, and I had a bit of perspiration going as well. We bowed and clasped hands. Neither one of us had really struck the other terribly hard, and I was more than content enough to send him into the mat, which was more startling than painful.

Dennis said his goodbyes and took off, and Sophia and I got ready to spar while Carlos leaned against a strength training machine. I bowed to Sophia, and she rolled her hand and made a ‘let’s get on with it motion.’ We squared off and engaged.

Sophia’s style was a sloppy mess, and while she’d picked up a few things here and there, her overall strategy was just attack, attack, attack, and then attack some more. She was too headstrong to listen and take what I tried to teach her seriously. It was after the second time I’d flipped her onto the mat that I saw her scramble to her feet and, hoo, she was pissed.

The next time I was about to get a grapple on her, she flickered her Breaker state momentarily. I was put suddenly off-balance, having expected to latch onto her, and a split second later, I took a hard elbow right to the mouth. The taste of copper flooded my mouth, and I dropped to one knee and wiped my lips with the back of my glove.

“Sophi-” Carlos had caught what happened and went to speak up, but Sophia cut him off.

“What’s wrong, Morgan? Did you forget what we’re here to do? We’re here to fight parahumans,” she said, snarling out the last bit. “You know, criminals and murderers with powers who aren’t here to score points on a scoreboard? That we’re supposed to win fights against?!”

I could feel my face heating as I flushed with a mix of shame and rage. Leave it to her to bring that up to get a rise out of me. I clenched my fist, and I could acutely feel my power in my mind. Bubbling and roiling, churning like rapids. There for me to dip my toes into, or to dive headfirst.

“You want me to fight you with my power, do you?” I asked in a quiet voice. I was so fucking pissed right now. The discussions I had with Jessica about learning control through practice popped into the back of my head, and I shoved them aside. Sophia had elevated her voice to practically a yell: “Yes! I want you to actually carry your own weight in a team fight for once! Prove that you deserve to be here and stop being such a fucking joke!”

I curled my lip into a sneer and tapped into my power. I wasn’t diving entirely in, but I’d hop into the shallow end and see how things went. I wanted to hurt her for what she’d said, hitting me directly in my doubts as hard as she’d hit me in the mouth. I felt my power expanding out from where I kept it tightly wrapped up in my chest, and the effects were immediate. My gloves creaked as I formed tight fists, and I could feel my muscles bulging under my skin, and my guts twisting into knots as the adrenaline hit.

My focus narrowed down to Sophia, and nothing else. Her posture, her movements, her tells. I launched myself at her fast. Maybe faster than I’d ever gone before. I wasn’t pulling punches, or to be more specific, I wasn’t pulling kicks. I closed the gap in the blink of an eye, and I saw her eyes widen before I launched into a non-stop barrage of combination attacks: all advancing, all hard offense designed to put her on the defensive, on the back foot, or to simply get knocked the fuck out. Spinning kicks chained together into gymnastic-looking maneuvers similar to what you’d see in showboat competitions. But make no mistake, the point wasn’t to look good here; it was to conserve and continue to build and maintain energy while pressing an overwhelming offense.

I expected her to shift states rather than dodge. I don’t think she was fast enough and certainly not experienced enough to dodge even heavily telegraphed attacks like this, and the risk of taking a heel to the face was entirely way too high. She didn’t disappoint. I did my homework with my team; I knew their strengths and weaknesses. She was Manton-limited and unable to come back into solid phase with someone else inside her in her gaseous Breaker-state form. I wanted to make her feel like her power was a liability right now and not a strength. I was up her ass, almost literally. I kept attacking through her smoky, immaterial figure, and she kept doing her best to break away from me to revert back.

“What’s wrong, Sophia!? Having a hard time hitting me with cheap shots all of a sudden!?”

She jumped and glided through the air like a paper airplane, flying a good thirty feet and landing on top of a tall squatting rack. She snapped back into solid and eyed her surroundings to plan out her next move. I wasn’t letting her control the situation. With a flex of my thighs and calves, I leaped on top of the nearest of a line of heavy-duty treadmills and sprinted across the tops of the machines like a heat-seeking missile, and launched into a flying kick aimed square at her. She phased and jumped again, and I flew through her and landed with a roll and a slap of my foot on the rubber-matted floor of the weightlifting area.

We played a game of cat and mouse, with her not able to get into a position to attack me, and me being unable to successfully land a hit on her in her Breaker state. We’d worked our way back into the sparring area. Carlos had taken up near the door and was keeping a keen eye on events as they unfolded, and I saw him fiddling with something at one point. I wasn’t diverting my attention to him and risk losing the edge on Sophia, or losing track of her. It was well lit in here, but she could still be hard to see if I lost track of her amongst the exercise machinery. I needed a way of knocking her out of her breaker state long enough to get her into a submission hold.

“I can do this all day, Phoenix Strike. What are you going to do, chase me around until you get tired?” She taunted me from her shadow state. She planted a smoky hand on her hip and cocked it out to one side while casually fanning her face like she was bored.

My power bubbled and burbled in my head, and I activated it again. I felt something I can’t accurately describe squirming inside my right forearm. I shook my right hand out and flicked it downwards to my side. There was a gross, wet slapping sound of something hitting the floor below me and to my right. And I could feel it. Squirming along the floor in ropes and coils. I knew it was going to be disgusting. It always was when this happened. I glanced down. Maybe a dozen feet of transparent, slightly pink worm-thing was leaving trails of slime on the floor and reaching up to where it was growing out of the back of my right wrist. I had a notion in my head of what it was capable of.

Fuck it. And fuck you.

I brought my arm back, feeling the mat slide under my appendage, and squeezed a muscle that shouldn’t be there in my upper forearm, then swung my arm forward at Sophia. My tentacle, for lack of a better description, lashed out like a whip, and when it should have passed through Sophia, instead it found purchase and wrapped around her, snapping her out of her Breaker state. She stiffened and fell straight onto her ass, then went flat on the mat. Yelling incoherently, she was flailing her arms around trying to get my tentacle off her. I dashed forward and jumped on top of her, my knees thudding into the mat on each side of her waist, and my left forearm pressed into her windpipe. I invaded deep into her personal space without even thinking about what I was doing, my face so close to hers that only inches separated the tips of our noses. I could smell her breath.

“Tap out!” I yelled into her face, and it came out weirdly deep and growly-sounding to my ear. A long and thick string of saliva stretched down and landed on her cheek from my mouth. My long blonde hair cascaded down around us like stage curtains and was moving in a non-existent breeze. I saw a single expression flash across her face for a brief instant before she nodded and slapped the mat with her palm.

My guts twisted and clenched, and it was like a light switch had been flipped in my head. I suddenly didn’t feel so good about my victory by submission and knocking her down a peg or five. My power was stuffed back in its box, and I rocked back up and off Sophia. I grabbed her under her armpits and hoisted her up to her feet without asking. Hair down and obscuring most of my face, I hoped it hid the way I was feeling right now.

I got out “Sorry” before I turned and half-jogged to the locker room. I deliberately didn’t look at Carlos, assuming he was in the same place he had been previously. I also ignored the scratches and rips in the matting and the snail-trail slime on the floor on my way to the lockers. Slamming a bathroom stall open and latching it closed, I had just enough time to get the lid up and my hair flipped back over my shoulder before I was hardcore vomiting into the bowl.

When that look had passed over Sophia’s face, I had a flashback of the look on Melody’s face as she stood in our bathroom doorway. One night, I’d had a particularly vivid dream-slash-nightmare and had jumped out of bed and run into the bathroom to splash water on my face. I was on edge and must have woken her up with the sound of me darting into the bathroom because she appeared in the doorway looking sleepy, and her calling to me startled me.

I’d jolted and looked at her, and she got a look on her face, stammered something, and stepped back and closed the door. My confusion at her response was answered when I glanced in the mirror. My hair was slithering around, and my cheeks and eyes were surrounded by dozens of glittering black gemstones embedded in my skin. My eyes were entirely wrong, the sclera and irises shifting colors, and my pupils twisting, splitting, dividing, merging, and going through shapes and designs faster than I could track.

I looked like a fucking monster.

In the here and now, I couldn’t help myself, and I started sobbing between bouts of ejecting the contents of my stomach. Snot and tears joined the foul-smelling mix in the water as I rested my head on my forearms. Minutes passed, and I tried to control my breathing and work through some of the exercises Jessica had taught me to clear my head and lower my stress levels. I was still sniffling, crying softly, and resting my head on my arms on top of the toilet rim, a few flushes and minutes later. I heard the outer door to the bathroom partition of the locker room hiss and click closed, and quiet footsteps approached my stall. Raising my head and glancing under the stall door, I saw military-style boots.

Ah, hell. Hannah.

I reached up and flicked the stall lock off and flushed the toilet, but didn’t otherwise get up from the floor or my toilet perch.

I sniffled and cleared my throat. “Come on in. Enter my shame domain.”

Hannah entered the stall, closed the door, and leaned back against it with her arms crossed over her chest. She looked at me for a long moment but didn’t say anything. Her expression was hard to read, she was hard to read, even when she didn’t have her typical bandanna lower-face mask on. I was an ugly crier and knew I looked like shit. I got up off the floor, put the lid down on the toilet, and sat down, elbows on my knees and my face in my hands. I assumed that Carlos had called someone, maybe her directly, when things got ugly with Sophia and me.

“Are you okay?”

I ran my thumbs under my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Nodding, I looked back up at her.

“Yeah, I’m fi- feeling better.” I corrected myself mid-sentence. I wasn’t going to lie to her; I respected her too much for that. With a sigh, I asked her: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble or hurt anyone.”

She tongued her cheek then asked: “Trouble? What trouble?”

“With Sophia?”

She shrugged slowly. “Passed her in the elevator on my way down here. She seemed totally fine to me, same as she usually is. I came down to see you when I heard you were here.”

Is she playing with me? There’s no way she just happened to come straight here, and I’m certain Carlos was involved. What’s this about?

“I mean the fight, Hannah. I’m not… Trying to be short or anything.”

“It’s good that you all were doing some sparring and training on your own initiative. Carlos told me you were practicing exercising your powers? Did you lose control?”

I frowned. Had I? Maybe a little bit of a mess and some mild damage to the flooring, but wear and tear were to be expected. Mats wore out and had to be patched or replaced, usually not due to training, but people being inconsiderate and wearing footwear or rolling equipment over them. Almost reluctantly admitting it to myself, I said: “...No, I didn’t. Lost my temper, I suppose, but I don’t think I experienced issues with my power.”

“Losing your temper in training happens. If the training is stressful, emotions will get high, but stressful training is some of the more effective training.” A pause. “Carlos was concerned about you because he said you were pretty upset, so I figured I’d come to check in. I needed to talk with you about something as well, while you were here today, so it’s accomplishing two things at once.”

Not quite what I suspected.

“Yeah, um, what’s up?”

“We’ve got guided tours for Winslow High on Friday. Dean was going to be part of the rotation, but he’s had a scheduling conflict come up. Can you make it on Friday? It’d be during school hours.”

I thought a moment. I didn’t have any big exams or projects due Friday, partly the reason why we had been trying to make plans for the weekend. I could log my class hours in the afternoon or evening if I wanted to online, as I was all set up to be a hybrid student like all the other Wards.

I nodded firmly. “Plan on it. Is this a cape event?”

Hannah shook her head. “It’s not a hard rule either way, you can come as you like so long as you’re following protocols. If you want to represent the team and do the tour as Phoenix Strike, you can. Or you can just be in your civilian identity and do it as an intern. Just double-check you’re using the correct ID card, of course.”

I rubbed my nose and laughed. “Yeah, that might make for some awkward questions why this lady says she’s an intern and her badge says WARDS in giant capital letters.”

Hannah moved to open the door. “It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened, and it’s always a mess when it does. Let’s not go there, unless you’re looking for a change of scenery. I do hear Tucson is nice.”

It was so hard to tell when she was joking at times. I laughed, and thankfully, I don’t think I sounded nervous.

Chapter Text

I covered my mouth, yawned, and rapidly blinked my eyes when they started wanting to water. Couldn’t afford to have a run right now! Twitching the tip of my nose, I brought my cup of coffee up and took a pull from it. It was a touch too hot, but the bitter brew was precisely what I needed right this moment, between activating my taste buds and giving me that extra kick of stimulation, as well as the caffeine.

I was standing in the primary lobby of PRT HQ as cop cars rerouted traffic out front for school buses to pull up and offload safely. Teachers were taking roll and counting heads on clipboards, and students were filing into the lobby into loose clique groups divided by classes. I had been assigned the Sophomore year for today’s tour.

While tours and meet and greets were a big part of life both as a Ward and as a full member of the Protectorate, this wasn’t a standard, run-of-the-mill tour, the likes of which we had seven days a week in the tower. Those were sort of theme-parkish; they had a lot of upcharge ticketing packages and featured a big dose of PR at every turn. Today was going to be a more in-depth and very interactive question-and-answer tour.

There was a bunch of PR with this, too, of course, but the high school tours were more a function of the PRT’s youth outreach program to present a friendly face and show an approachable and grounded organization. For those who might have triggered under our radar, or who might trigger at a later date. It was part of the same program that had us visiting trauma patients and doing check-ins at hospitals and clinics with patients who had been through hell. The likelihood that they had experienced, or would experience a trigger event and gain powers was very high.

Villains outnumbered heroes at a bit more than a two-to-one ratio, and first or early impressions were really key in determining the course that many new parahumans would take. If a brand-new parahuman, who’s just experienced major trauma and gained powers, can talk to and relate to someone who can walk them through things, chances are they’ll be steered down a path that’s aligned with the people they’re interacting with.

I looked over the groups and individuals that I would be guiding through the building and interacting with. The differences between Winslow students and Arcadia students were always pretty dramatic, and I felt bad for many of the Winslow students I was looking at. My school was located in the more affluent part of the city, or rather, the part of the city that had been better able to recover from the city’s economic downturn. It was a big string of related events. The dockyards closing, the Dockworkers’ Association strike and resulting ship graveyard event, and the closing of the ferry hit that part of the city hard. Property values dove off a cliff, tax revenue collapsed, and the results were not just tons of unemployment and under-employment, but also high crime, gang activity, and serious budget crunches for tax-funded things like school districts.

The second-hand and ill-fitting clothing, ratty sneakers–a guilty pleasure of mine–and poor selection of colder-weather clothing showed. Maybe more telling was the posture and demeanor of the students. Defensive and aloof was pretty consistent throughout; some looked downright contemptuous of the heraldry and images in the lobby, and others seemed like they were not just used to being ignored, but actively seeking it out.

I thought about my clothing and winced a little internally. I’d wanted to dress up and look nice for public relations work, which this was, so I had a nice white button-down blouse that was closely fitted to my figure. My pleated charcoal midi skirt with a subtle tartan pattern in shades of lighter and darker grays with a few silver threads for highlighting. I had on a pair of my nicer sneakers, but in professional colors, and I had painstakingly done my makeup and nails before work. My lanyard today was a Winslow High Varsity lanyard with my PRT employee holo-badge on proud display hanging below my boobs. I looked good, but I probably presented an image of a well-to-do young office worker that wasn’t going to be relatable to these students. Shit. I’d have to try and fully commit to engaging them in other ways.

I jumped straight into it and started chatting up students while the buses were still offloading. I avoided the couple of groups wearing low-key gang paraphernalia; someone who already had gang affiliations was very unlikely to be receptive. Not that I didn’t want to potentially help them, but with limited time and resources, I was better deploying my attention to the groups that would be more willing or able to engage. Groupthink was also a big issue with gangs and other tight social circles. I chatted up a couple of groups and introduced myself to them, fielding a question here and there as they came up.

As it looked like we were getting ready to start, I came into one group, one I could immediately tell was a group that existed due to outside forces. Probably those who were cast out from, or otherwise ostracized from the rest. The loser’s club, although I tried not to think in terms like that. There were four of them together, some talking, some ignoring the existence of the others. A short guy with a truly awful haircut was talking to a guy with really strong prescription lenses and a bad case of acne. There was a heavily overweight girl in an unflattering vinyl coat, and then another girl who was about the polar opposite. Rail thin, and so dark and gloomy she might as well have had thunderclouds over her head. I almost cracked up at the mental image of the thin, curly-haired girl’s thundercloud being the reason the larger girl was wearing what amounted to a raincoat.

I’d apparently walked halfway into a mostly one-sided conversation between the bowl-cut guy and the acne guy regarding the Wards. They were debating the merits of the various members of the team–my team.

“Kid Win would win, hands down. Not only is it in the name, but everyone knows that if you give a tinker a proper workshop and resources, they can solve any problem.” Bowl cut rocked his head in a side-to-side motion and considered the statement from the bespectacled fellow.

“Point, but I bet you, as a Ward, he has to go through a bunch of red tape between making something and being able to use it. I think Gallant would beat him in a fight, though. How are you going to think and be strategic if you’re bawling like a baby in a fight?”

“Dude, I can’t believe you’re going to argue for Emo Knight after you gave him that name in the first place!”

Hah! Emo Knight! I’m going to tell Dean that, or maybe just hit him with it at practice. That’s a good one.

I let out a chuckle and introduced myself. “Hello! I’m Morgan Rivera, I work here, and I’m going to be walking your class through the tower tour today! Are any of you particularly excited about the class trip, or maybe you don’t care about PRT and parahumans stuff and are just enjoying not being stuck in school for most of the day?”

“Hey, uh, I’m Greg. And I freaking love cape stuff! Getting to spend a class day coming here and getting one of the exclusive tours is like a dream come true, I’ve been waiting all year for it!”

Geeze, I can tell. ‘One of’ is interesting; maybe he’s pretty well-versed and knows the different types we offer here.

The guy with the glasses turned to me, and I smiled at him. He stammered a bit, then got out: “Hi, I’m Leo. I like superhero stuff too, and…” He looked around a moment before asking in a quieter voice: “...Is it okay to say that I think some villains are kinda cool too?”

I let out a little laugh and waved a hand. “Hah, don’t sweat it! We don’t make them a focus of stuff like this, but sure, some of them have a cool style or can be a bit over-the-top in a not-awful way. And there’s always an effort to convert villains over to the good guys' team. A not-insignificant number of the Protectorate are former villains who gave up a life of crime and notoriety to help people.”

Let’s leave out the part where those are typically plea deals for them to stay out of prison, or worse, the Birdcage.

“I’m Samantha,” the lady in the raincoat said. “Hero stuff is okay, I don’t really care all that much about powers or fighting, but I want to get into fashion design, and the costumes are pretty interesting to me.” She had a soft, kind voice, and there was a sparkle in her eye that made me think that she’d follow through on her goals. She seemed to have a motivated energy about her.

I turned to the last of the group, and the only one who hadn’t spoken. She’d been furtively glancing over at another group of girls and seemed caught off guard when she realized we were all looking at her. “Taylor,” was all she said before stuffing her hands into an oversized hoodie and finding something interesting to look at on the floor tiles.

I mean, it is a pretty nice floor, it’s all-natural cut and polished stone, and it’s got the PRT logo designed into the tile work. Maybe she’s just shy?

I glanced over to the group of girls she’d been looking at and was surprised to see Sophia among them, along with a red-haired girl who looked oddly familiar and a brunette with hairpins in, who were chatting with another two guys. I turned my attention back to the group but shifted over a few steps to be able to keep an eye on Sophia. It wound up putting me closer to the two girls than the two guys.

“So I overheard you all talking about the Wards on my way over.” I took another pull of my coffee and swallowed. “Have any particular favorites among the team? Anyone super lame?” I enjoyed playing this game with tour groups; it was nice hearing the different things people had to say about the Wards, some good, some bad. My name rarely came up, which was a little depressing, but also understandable.

“I like Kid Win. Tinkers are cool,” said Leo.

“I like Vista’s costume, it fits her style very well,” offered Sam.

Greg practically gushed when he said, “Clockblocker, he’s got a cool power and one of the best names ever. And he’s funny, too.”

Taylor seemed like she hadn’t spent much time thinking about it before, and her brow furrowed. After a moment of what looked like intense introspection, she offered: “Aegis.”

“What about you, Ms. Rivera?” Greg asked excitedly.

“Please, just Morgan. I like all of them in all honesty, and I’m not just saying that because I work here. They all have their own things they bring to the team.”

“Even Phoenix Strike?” Greg queried me with a tilt of his head.

Oof.

I cleared my throat and spoke up just a bit louder so I’d be heard by some of the groups in the immediate area. “No way, not her. Phoenix Strike really sucks!” I laughed a little to indicate I was joking to the faces that had turned. I saw Sophia looking over at me, and she shot me a dirty look. I raised a hand and waved to her with a big smile. “Hi Sophia, glad to see you’re here!” I called over to her. She scowled marginally harder, then huffed and turned back to her friends. I noticed she had a scarf on. It wasn’t terribly cold outside, and it was an interesting fashion choice.

Might have bruised her neck yesterday. If a bruise is the worst she got, she earned it.

I was a little surprised to hear the quiet girl speak up next to me: “You know her?”

I turned to look at her, and she was giving me a rather sharply focused look, considering the subject matter.

Ah. So there is someone under the shell. Reminds me a little of Amy. Get her on a topic she cares about, and you see the person beneath come out.

I bobbed my head and explained: “Yeah. I had a track meet or two against her before.” I noticed Taylor glance back at Sophia with a certain look on her face that I recognized. I wasn’t sure if it was disgust or maybe loathing, but whatever it was, I could pick up that there was no love lost there. Seems we share something in common. In the hopes of getting the chance to get through to some of these Winslow kids today, I did something my PR mind was screaming was a bad idea.

Fuck it.

I leaned a little closer to her and whispered only loudly enough that the two of us would hear it: “You probably know this already since she’s in your grade, but she’s a real fucking cunt.”

Taylor’s eyes widened, and I suspected I’d hit my intended target. The faint smile confirmed it. It looked good on her.

Greg barged in, interrupting the moment: “You know, even though her ratings are, you know, low, I’ve seen some footage of her doing some sick moves. I think she’s underrated, personally. You ever see that clip that got uploaded to PHO of their fight against the E88 where Shadow Stalker ran at her, and Phoenix Strike-like, caught her foot mid-hop, and catapulted her up on top of that building? That’s freaking teamwork, man. I uh- mean uhm- Miss Morgan?” His stream-of-consciousness ranting made me chuckle.

“Yeah, I did see it. And maybe you’re right that she’s a little underrated,” I said, as a badged teacher made a beeline straight to me.

“Everyone’s accounted for, we’re all set on our end.” I looked at his Winslow ID. Mr. Gladly.

“I’ll gladly take them off your hands and get us put into motion,” I said with an innocent smile.

Gladly gave me a double thumbs-up and announced, “Have fun, class, and enjoy the tour!”

I walked to the front of the class, some 40 or so students, set my coffee on the side of the big reception desk, and clapped my hands together once, quite loudly.

“If I can have your attention, please, Winslow-Gladly! We’re starting and going to these elevators,” I pointed to the nearest bank, already on the floor and locked open for us. “Please file in, there’s enough and they’re large enough to take all of us in one go, but you might need to separate from your friends for the trip if one is a bit crowded!”

Unclipping my radio from my skirt belt, I spoke into it. “Rivera here, group three now loading. Let’s do Ops first today.” The radio bounced back an affirmation, and I joined the students in one of the elevators. The tours were very closely monitored by our operations center on camera, and they had full control of the building systems from their very secure part of the facility. I decided that we’d be going to Ops first today, as I tended to want to save the crowd favorites for the finale. Operations were cool, but it wasn’t the coolest part of the tour we’d be doing today. A good middle ground to start.

We got started, and I walked the group through the low-security areas of our field operations offices. This is primarily where PRT officers were based, and it was structurally similar to what you’d expect a police station to be like. There was a lot of neat stuff on display for visitors there, including some fully equipped mannequins of PRT Tactical Response teams. Those guys didn’t get deployed for little stuff and were sorta like our version of SWAT. Multi-spectral optical devices, light, medium, or heavy armor, hell, even powered exo frames. Weapons included a variety of rifles and sub-machine guns, grenade launchers, you name it. In addition to the flashy stuff, I introduced the group to the members of the Parahuman Response Team that they were far and away most likely to meet in their day-to-day lives: the officers.

Showing people that there were people behind the potentially scary-looking armor and guns was important. PRT armor had a heavy focus on the concealment of identity for officers. Villains weren’t known to be the most honorable or scrupulous people by their very nature, and there was less of an incentive for them to hold back with people trying to stop them who didn’t have parahuman abilities. Although I’d like to think that the outfits weren’t made to be intimidating, they often came across that way.

Moving on, we headed to Public Relations next. This tended to be one of the more popular stops on these tours. The PR people were very outgoing and friendly, and they also gave out boatloads of swag and kitsch. This visit was no exception, and I used the time they were grouping people up and handing out merch to ditch my now-empty coffee cup and hit the restroom. Sophia tailed me in and was intent on chatting me up while I touched up my lipstick.

I glanced in the mirror and didn’t see any feet under the stall doors. Looking over, I asked her, doing my best not to sound like I was gloating: “Is your neck okay? I’m sorry if I bruised it.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and snorted derisively. “You shouldn’t be. And you shouldn’t apologize, either. You always go too easy on people. Yesterday was the first time you proved there’s some fight in you.”

“Well. It wasn’t my intent to lose my cool and scream in your face, and I felt bad about it. It wasn’t professional.”

“Like I said yesterday, our job isn’t to be professional. It’s to win.”

I squinted at her and said, “Keep your voice down; there are civilians right outside, and one of them could be snooping.”

She huffed but complied with the request, dropping her volume. “You know you’d be the team lead if you weren’t such a pussy pushover all the time, right?”

I blinked. “Sophia I-”

“No, you shut your mouth and listen to me for once,” she practically snapped. I closed my mouth and didn’t interrupt her, but I didn’t like where this was going.

“You’re good at this stuff…” she gestured at the doorway leading back out onto the main floor. “...and you’re good at the other stuff the bosses want, writing reports, going to meetings. But you’re a fuck up loser when it comes to actual fights. That’s why Carlos is in charge and not you. You’re better than he is, but you won’t take advantage of it, and that pisses me off. I hate people like that.”

I took a breath and let it out slowly. “Sophia, I respect Carlos. He’s earned what he has. My issue is… control. I don’t want to hurt people or wind up killing someone accidentally. And there’s more to leadership than just fighting and strength. You compete in track, you know that being the fastest doesn’t mean you’re cut out to be captain because of it.”

She scoffed and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Who cares if you killed someone by accident? They’re drug dealers, criminals, murderers. Racists. Why should you care if they die? Anyways, you’re stupid if you really mean what you said. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and if you want to keep being the little dog when you’re not, you’re going to get eaten. That’s all there is to it. It’s not called survival of the most diplomatic.” With a dismissive flick of her hand and a huff, she turned and left.

I washed my hands quickly and blasted them with the electric dryer before walking back out and taking over the tour.

We hit R&D next, which was a significantly less interesting department here than out on the rig in the bay. The rig is where they kept most of the truly dangerous stuff, along with most of the main Protectorate team’s primary kit. They had backup gear here, too, of course. Our labs here mostly had high-tech stuff and not tinkertech.

Second-to-last stop on the tour was what some of us called ‘the tank,’ which was the parahuman holding and containment cells. Parahumans, and our various and often wild abilities, required some pretty creative and extremely over-engineered solutions to keep in a cell. This was the ‘be good kids, or you might end up here’ portion of the tour, and one I personally wasn’t terribly fond of. Some of the holding cell designs were neat, I suppose. The cells for the more dangerous parahumans had walls that were, in places, multiple yards thick, with heavy steel reinforcement, and then plating or padding on top of that. There tended to be active deterrents built into the cells, too, so if someone did start using a power and it was going to be a problem, there were options. The cells could be flooded with containment foam to immobilize people; they could issue nasty electrical discharges, strobe flashes, and all sorts of auditory or chemical-based irritants. The class had a good time taking selfies behind bars of one of the cells that was often used as a demo unit.

Last stop today was going to be our floor. Wards HQ. I radioed it in and announced it to the class, and the energy level jumped noticeably. Even the students who were sorta so-so on parahumans, in general, tended to be a bit more into parahumans in their age bracket. Our identities under the mask were an especially hot topic for debate and argument, both locally and on Parahumans Online, the biggest website on the internet for cape culture and information. Part of our job as Wards was to engage with tours like this directly, usually with at least one of us having to participate, but ideally, all of us who were at HQ when they came through.

There was even an alert system to warn us when they were coming in advance of arrival, so we had plenty of time to make sure our costumes were on and any potential identity issues averted.

We landed on the floor, and I guided everyone down the shiny metal corridor leading to the proper Wards HQ. It was a bit overly flashy for my tastes, but I will say it did make an impression. The doors were opened remotely for us to enter, and Chris, or Kid Win, waved from on top of his hoverboard, all decked out in his full costume. Some people power-walked in, others drifted, and when I was sure everyone was in, I gave a thumbs-up to the camera operators, and the doors closed.

This was largely the cape’s show from here, and I was happy to have a bit of a break, the tour clocking in at about two hours in total. While Kid Win proved he was both a real person and a teenager like the rest of the contents of the room, I checked in on several people whom I’d been planning on following up on or had been meaning to talk to otherwise, but hadn’t managed to get the chance yet on the tour.

After chatting with about half a dozen people or so and pointing them at various resources or providing them with some of the materials we had on hand to answer questions and the like, I noticed that the tall, thin dark-haired girl from earlier was standing on her own, away from the main group where Kid Win was having a Q & A session. We had a big display piece inset into one of the walls. It was a set of mannequins with close approximations of our figures wearing mock-ups of our uniforms and gear. In the case of the tinkertech gear and armor, it was a non-functional replica, but where it was more of a costume, it tended to be pretty close, if not a spare.

I tried to suppress a grin at the fact that someone was looking at my costume specifically out of all the ones in the display. I wasn’t exactly popular. I was one of the lowest-ranked heroes on PHO.

Who am I kidding? I’m not one of the lowest; I am the lowest.

Stepping up beside her, she didn’t react to my presence, instead hovering her face only inches from the glass and moving her head around to get a better look at… the belt?

“Taylor, right? Did you enjoy the tour?”

“I thought it was pretty informative, all things considered.” She didn’t turn to face me when responding.

“Fan of Phoenix Strike? I noticed you seem into the costume.”

She stood up straight, and I noticed she was a touch taller than I was when she wasn’t slouching in the corner.

She’s so thin. I hope she doesn’t have an eating disorder or something. It’s unusual to see someone with a build like hers.

Taylor gestured at my mannequin, at the belt specifically, and asked: “What do you think she keeps in there? There’s a pretty good amount of pouches, but they’re not labeled or anything, you know?”

I bobbed my head quickly and answered: “Phone, backup radio, handcuffs, flashlight- there, there, and there. Those are grenade pouches: flashbangs, signal smoke, and CS gas. The big kind of rectangular one there is a military-style medkit. That’s a multitool pouch. See those two cylindrical ones and the one boxy one? Those are chem lights and a multi-mode beacon. The holster has a taser and reloads. It’s hard to see, but under the straps that connect the pouches to the belt webbing, there are heavy-duty zip cuffs sorta woven in.”

My utility belt had been something that had taken me months to finally nail down to where I was happy with it. Every single thing served a dedicated purpose. It was so easy to get caught up in the ‘just one more thing’ mentality and find yourself lugging an extra ten or fifteen pounds of extra stuff you might need at some point, but every addition added both weight and bulk. Mobility mattered a whole lot, and added volume wasn’t just something that could get in the way or catch on things, but also potentially be used against you in a grappling situation.

I looked away from the mannequin back over to Taylor and saw she was giving me an appraising look. She opened her mouth twice to say something, seemed to think better of it, then finally said: “I sorta figured you just worked here as a tour guide or office worker, but you seem to know a heck of a lot about some of the more detailed things.”

Shit, I nerded out there for a moment and got caught.

I chuckled a bit and nodded, admitting, “You could say I wear a lot of different hats around here. Office paperwork, meetings, PR, outreach, and even doing some personal assistant work for some of the heroes.” It was truthful, if not entirely accurate. I had gotten coffee for members of the Protectorate in the past. A change of subject might also serve as a good deflection right about now. I pulled out the business card I’d grabbed earlier and held it out to her. The tour would be officially ending in a matter of minutes, and the students would be shepherded back to the lobby for a headcount and return to Winslow.

She took the card and looked at it. It was a bog standard PRT East-Northeast card with a number of our main contact and emergency hotline numbers on the front. Flipping it over, she saw that I’d written my name and number on the backside. She frowned slightly, looking at it, then looked back up at me. Her fingers tightened around it slightly. Her expression shifted some, maybe from a more defensive posture to a puzzled one. It was hard for me to tell without knowing her better.

“Is this… For what, exactly?” She asked. Her gaze was sharp, and there was an edge to her voice when she asked: “You do this for everyone on the tour, or what?”

I tilted my head slightly, a bit perplexed by the response, and told her: “Yes, everyone gets contact information plastered all over the pamphlets in the swag bags. I gave you my number because I noticed you were paying attention more than most of the other students in your class. If you wind up having any questions later, reach out.” I was tempted to hedge my bet on the risk of losing a potential contact, but opted to go with what my gut was telling me. “Or if you just want to chat sometime. Shoot me a text.”

She looked conflicted and hesitated a moment, but she didn’t hand the card back and instead stuffed it into her jeans pocket. “I don’t-” she sighed. “I don’t text. I don’t have a cellphone. Just a regular landline at home.” She hesitated a long moment. “What’s CS gas?”

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, and she gave me that sharp look again. I waved a palm for a moment, then caught my breath and composed myself. “Sorry, just a funny thought. I was suddenly reminded of myself a few years ago when I asked that same question in almost the same situation. And here I am, perpetuating the cycle.” She looked relieved for some reason, and I explained: “It’s more commonly called tear gas by the public, but in military and law enforcement…”

Chapter Text

I inserted my key into the front door, twisted it, and the deadbolt retracted with a solid thunk in the door. Adjusting my bag on one shoulder, I twisted to look back at the street and waved to the unmarked PRT SUV. Officer David Collins, who was like my PRT case worker slash liaison, had given me a ride home as my patrol had run later than I’d originally planned.

Stepping in, I closed and locked the door behind me. It was late Saturday night, and the lights were still all on. I gathered my damp hair behind my neck and squatted down to take off my expensive sneakers. I’d worn my Limited Edition BallerOne 2010 Championship Title pair, which had cost entirely way too much money for a pair of obnoxiously loud sneakers. I frowned and licked my thumb to wipe off a smudge of dust on the toe box of the right shoe. Fluorescent orange color restored, I straightened the gold and red laces and set them on one of the upper shelves of the shoe rack.

Standing back up, a pair of arms wrapped around my waist and squashed me in a hug from behind, and I laughed. I smelled her body wash and shampoo combination and knew without a doubt who it was. I leaned back against her and rubbed the side of my head against hers.

“Hey sis. Sorry, I’m so late. I know we were going to try and get a couple of games in tonight, but work was worky.”

“Pft, who cares? You’re out doing important shit. Besides, we can still play, it’s not a weeknight.”

“True!”

“Let’s get into it then, nerd!”

I gasped! “Nerd!? You’re a nerd, nerd!”

She let go of my waist and stepped back, doing her own mock gasp. “Yeah, well, you’re a stinky nerd! First one to a controller gets the first draft!” With that, she sprinted to the staircase and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Bitch!” I called out and ran after her. I waved at Mom and Dad on the sofa in the living room as I ran past.

Dad said, “Have fun!” before he got back into whatever conversation he was having with Mom while they watched TV.

Melody beat me to my room and had the Game Station loading up our favorite game: Heroes & Villains: Versus 2! I shut the door behind me and dropped my bag next to it, before grabbing my controller, turning it on, and flopping onto my bed. I was a bit worn down and more than a little sore. I’d worked out hard with strength training this afternoon, and then I’d gone on patrol to continue working on a case I’d been chipping away at for weeks now.

We tried to keep appraised of illicit activities in the city, especially in the nastier parts of town or in areas where there was a high gang presence. I had been tracking down, surveilling, and logging these shipments, the Azn Bad Boys–ABB for short–had been moving around recently that were of interest.

My bed felt good, and I rested my head back and closed my eyes while the main menu music came up, and Melody started setting up a match with our favorite settings. The clicks, beeps, and chimes paused a moment, and I felt the bed shift as she lay up against my side.

“Bad day?” She asked me softly.

“No, actually, I think I’d say it was a good day. I was able to put together some more evidence and connect the dots on some gang shit going on the north side. I think we’re super close to being able to make a move in on them. That’ll be nice. It’s been going on for two months now. I’ve been tracking this stuff. It could be big for me. My first… You know, win. The thing I can call successful and put my name to.”

Her fingers traced over my face as she straightened some stray hairs and swept them to the side. We’d always been really close like this.

She was quiet for a moment before saying, “I’m kind of worried that you’re going to get relocated when you graduate from the Wards. Or if you’re still here, you’re not going to have the time to be my sister as much.”

I cracked an eye over at her and turned my head. Kissing her on the cheek, I threw an arm over her chest and squeezed her in a side hug. “Oh, Mel, try not to worry too much, please? I’ve poked around with some of the members of the Protectorate here and asked around. They’re short-staffed as it is, so I don’t think I have to worry about a permanent relocation. Maybe for training or something, but I’d be back before you knew it. You know I care a lot about making sure we get time, and it’s just not me hanging out with the other Wards.”

She nodded and looked a bit relieved at what I’d said about the chances of relocation being low, but I could still see that it weighed on her somewhat. I studied her face for a moment, then looked down at what she was wearing.

I furrowed my brow when my gaze came to her chest, and then my eyes darted back up to her face. “Did you go up another size!?”

Her cheeks warmed with a touch of color, and she nodded.

“Oh, come on, Mel! This is such bullshit! Are you kidding me?” I protested loudly, and she laughed, a warm, genuine laugh that seemed to knock out that doubt that had been lingering.

“Maybe if you spent less time in the gym, you’d have more going on, dummy.”

“You act like you’re not hard into athletics yourself!”

It was something I harbored just a touch of resentment over. I’d had to drop my team memberships with my ‘knee injury,’ but Melody was about as much into sports as I was. We both had that competitive streak that ran deep in us. She’d continued without me, and I’d urged her to keep at it when she’d been talking about quitting in solidarity with me. We’d both played soccer heavily, and she had a scholarship to BBU. She also played basketball. I had done track and field as my spring sport. I was a pretty good runner, not great, but not bad. I was better at pole vault and downright mean with a javelin. I was happy for her success, but also a touch bitter at my career derailment.

After triggering, I’d spent more time with the weight racks and a bit less on the treadmill, both because I really wanted to be stronger, but also because it fit my cover story better. I’d dropped my body fat percentage and had some pretty spicy abs now, but that also meant that I’d gone down a cup size up top. At least the glute training gains from squatting offset the other losses.

I pouted at Melody. She rolled her eyes and poked me in the abdomen, timing her pokes with the points she was making as she said: “You know you’re still smoking hot, shut up. You could have your pick from like a dozen people at school if you wanted.”

I huffed. “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I just don’t have the time, and the double-life thing is already hard enough to manage as it is. I practically have a full-time job as a Ward with the hours I log, on top of school and trying to have at least a little social life here and there. You want me to cram dating into that, too?”

Melody pursed her lips and thought a moment. “What about if you were to try and overlap with something else? Someone at work, maybe?”

I gave her a flat look. “Oh my god, really, Melody? Really? Who?” I stressed the who with a note of incredulity.

She blinked and groaned. There were a lot of fairly good-looking people in the Cape community locally. Despite being a little shallow at times, I tended to be more drawn to personality than I was figure. The big issue was, well, I was gay. Gay and in the closet, more specifically. There was a higher overall percentage of female capes than there were male capes, which was great for me, but macro trends didn’t always correlate to micro trends.

Thanks, economics class.

The pickings of female heroes in my age group in Brocton Bay were pretty narrow. And I had pretty strong feelings about a couple of them that made them automatic exclusions, like in the case of Sophia.

“I’m not trying to nag you, but I still think you should tell mom and dad.”

I lightly thudded my head against hers. “I know. And I want to. It’s just… Whenever I want to bring it up, it’s never the right time to announce that. I’m maybe a little nervous and procrastinating a bit, but I’m also, you know, busy.”

“So don’t make an announcement, dummy. Stop trying to be a hero at home, you’re not Phoenix Strike, you’re my sister. You’re overthinking things and hyping yourself up in a bad way.”

I clicked my tongue and nodded. She was right, and I knew it. She was smarter than I was when it came to stuff like this. Or maybe had a better intuition for it. I could be introspective about a lot of things, but there was a whole… basket of worms inside, too, that I had tended to avoid poking around in. Most of it stems back to my power and related experiences.

She reverted topics while I was stewing with the video game soundtrack bopping in the background when she asked: “What about Vicky?”

What about Vicky, indeed?

It was fair to say that the thought of Glory Girl in that context had crossed my mind more than once or twice. There were issues there. We got along great, we had a ton in common, and we already knew each other pretty dang well. I voiced my biggest doubt: “I’m pretty sure she’s straight, she’s always fucking around with Dean, you know?”

“First of all, because she is dating or whatever you want to call that thing with Dean, doesn’t mean she’s straight, and you’re being deliberately stupid about that.” Her response was brisk, but she was right. “Secondly, her relationship is toxic. You know it, I know it, deep down, she probably knows it too, if she can see past her hormones. You’d be doing her a favor if you swooped in after one of her regular breakups and showed her.”

I bit my lip, and my nerves twisted my stomach. Reluctantly, I admitted: “She’s also one of my closest friends I still have, and… I don’t want to fuck that up. What if she was put off when I approached her? There isn’t a ton of people I can just… Really be myself around, you know, big picture.”

Melody stared into my eyes as she responded: “Sure, that’s always going to be a risk any time you put yourself out there to change an existing relationship. But have you ever thought that maybe she feels the same things you do? Meaning that she feels that there aren’t a ton of people she can be herself with? Sure, she’s got her sister, but what about people she can date? Maybe she keeps bouncing back to someone that doesn’t work out because she feels she lacks options, too.”

It was a point. A pretty solid one, at that. And I really hadn’t ever considered that possibility. Victoria’s on-off-on-off thing with Dean was always a subject of debate with the people in our social circle, with a lot of varying theories. I’d had a handful of late-night calls from her sobbing after the latest breakup. I liked Dean. I liked Victoria, but the two just weren’t good for one another. My personal theory was that both having emotion-manipulating powers was probably something that was going to make any romantic relationship fail, and I’d heard some pretty nasty rumors that he was a bit of a philanderer. He’d always been professional with me, though, oddly enough.

“Buh! Maybe. I mean it, I’ll think about it. Right now, though, it’s high time you get taken for a ride on the school bus.” I grinned over at Melody and grabbed my controller. I had to hold the power button to wake it back up from where it had powered down while we’d been doing gross girl talk.

“You wish, you’re going to get walloped. I did some research online and am testing some new team comps, and I got one I think is going to mess. You. Up.”

“Oh, it’s on!” We both sat up on the side of my bed and got into drafting our teams. I’d heard that this game was sorta similar to an Earth Aleph game, not sure if it was based on it, or the other way around. But it was one of my favorites. I liked fighting games, go figure, and I was solidly decent at them. So was Melody. We played the previous version so heavily we’d worn out two sets of controllers. Back in February, I bought her a proper stick-and-button arcade-style controller for our birthday with her favorite fighter on it: Narwhal.

Narwhal was, to put it bluntly, fucking hot. She didn’t wear a uniform or costume at all. She fought bare ass naked with her skin covered by scales of her forcefield projections, with a giant unicorn horn made from her power that was her namesake. On top of being, you know, smoking hot, she was also super strong. Not in a brute rating sense, but in the game balance way. Her forcefields weren’t just defenses; she could also attack with them from range and slice people into ribbons. She had a finishing move of decapitating a character with one. Sick.

She was always Melody’s first pick, and I couldn’t pre-draft ban her. I mean, I could, I just wouldn’t be a bitch like that to her and deny her favorite. Melody picked her.

“You have some secret sauce for me, huh? I got a little of my own. You might be surprised by my team!” I picked one of my usual go-to characters, one I didn’t want to spoil my surprise until the last pick. I picked and locked in: Chevalier.

“Boring. Typical. Lame,” Melody taunted. This was one area where I felt my trash talk was actually somewhat decent.

“You’re going to get the fuck-you sword strike so, so many times, just you wait and see.” Chevalier had a charge attack with his giant sword that tended to knock whoever got hit by it clear off the stage for a KO, provided they had accumulated some damage or weren’t super robust.

“Uh-huh. We’ll see about that.” Her cursor flew over the giant grid roster, flicking between pages. She kept lingering on one person or another, playing mind games with me. After the clock started ticking down the last ten seconds for the draft, she flipped pages and locked in Miss Militia as her second pick. Another one of her staple go-to characters, and for good reason. Miss Militia was a solid all-around pick because her weapon ability allowed her to pull out whatever kind of gun she needed at the moment or situation.

I nodded. I wasn’t going to shit-talk Hannah, and she knew it. Plus, it was just a solid pick, I used her a decent amount myself.

My second pick came up, and I futzed about a little in the same fashion Melody did, elbowing her a few times and teasing her antics before locking in Myrddin. He was very similar to Miss Militia, a sort of toolbox or utility pick, very versatile, and generally just a solid performer.

“Nerrrrrrd piiiiiiiick!” Melody dragged her taunt out. “Nerd! Nerd! Nerd! Here comes the wizard with his stick!” I rolled my eyes.

Myrddin was a hero who went in hard on the whole 'mystical wizard' thing. Robes, staff, beard, you name it.

Time to see who the final picks were going to be. The so-called counter picks, the one character that would either shore up a deficiency in a team, or more often than not, be something picked to counter a specific strategy of the opposing team. Melody jiggled her stick around, flitting between heroes and grinning at me before she slapped one of her clacky arcade buttons and locked in someone I really wasn’t expecting.

“LUNG! LUNG!? What the HELL! You never play villains, and of all of them, you pick LUNG!?”

She cackled gleefully, savoring my reaction. Lung was a badass villain. The dude had literally fought a freaking Endbringer solo for a little while. In the game, he was like this anthropomorphic metal dragon-man who had a flame aura and a bunch of flame attacks. He had high defense, a trait Melody didn’t often prioritize, but was also hard-hitting. A bruiser or brawler type, which was the sort of hero I tended to use in my front-line strategy. His elemental damage was a major weakness of my front-line brawler, Chevalier.

Lung was also a local. In fact, he was the leader of the gang I’d just been out investigating earlier, the ABB. I considered the trump card I’d been planning on using. Strong against Miss Militia. Strictly fine against Narwhal. Weak against Lung, shit. I stopped to reconsider for a moment. I’d spent a good amount of time making sure I had most of his moveset down. Although he was weak against point-blank area damage characters like Lung, he did have a few moves that could work. And he had a special effect, the same one Lung did, actually. Yeah, I could make the original plan work.

I locked in Clockblocker to the sound of Melody exclaiming: “WHAT!”

“All’s fair in love and war, sis. Looooove youuu.” I grinned impishly.

Similar to Melody’s almost never playing villains, I almost never played any of my teammates. The game only had Vista, Glory Girl and Clockblocker and I always felt it would be weird to play as someone I actually knew in my peer group. Plus, the voice lines were pretty cringeworthy at times. The screen flashed, and a segmented spinning wheel whirled around; the screen background changed for each of the stages as it slowed down. Tick, tick, tick, tick… New York. Nice. Solid map. There were timed hazards you had to avoid in the form of cars and buses you had to jump over, but I never minded them.

The screen flashed with the round timer, then the announcer called out: “TIME FOR BATTLE! FIGHT!”

We got straight into the thick of it. Your entire team would be out on the screen at once in the side-scrolling two-dimensional format of the game, but you only ever controlled one character who acted as the front attacker, with the others falling in behind. The two non-active characters would fire off abilities, attacks, and defenses automatically while you piloted your active character, who was the only one who could be targeted. Swapping characters in and out, each of us built attack sequences with the members of our roster.

I had a broader strategy in mind today, which I used occasionally, but was now really focusing on. As you dealt damage to the enemy team, you built a meter on the side of the screen your team was on. It also went up a little when you took damage, so it wasn’t just an overkill strategy. The meter was used to fire off special superattacks that tended to either swing the course of the battle or clinch a victory. The effect you did was based on executing a sequence of commands into the controller specific to that move. Just having Clockblocker on your team, just like with Lung, gives you a bonus modifier to gaining meter.

The time limit was approaching, and both Melody’s team and my team were beaten up really badly. But my last attack with Clockblocker capped out my meter. I precisely entered the buttons I wanted for... there! Clockblocker pulled out a pistol and shot a green signal flare into the sky before all three of my team back-flipped off the side of the screen. “Oh come on!” Melody protested as Alexandria streaked down from the sky and cratered the pavement. A cutscene played of her flying like a blur from target to target and uppercutting each of them into the air, where they all hung in slow motion. She then flew up and punched each dead center, and one by one, each of Melody’s heroes smashed into various iconic NYC buildings. The game announced: “PLAYER TWO: VICTORY!”

“She’s so freaking lame. She does too much damage; if your team is even close to low, she always gets a triple knockout,” grouched Melody. I grinned over at her and made it like I was playing a violin. She stuck her tongue out at me, and we went to round two.

Melody was no slouch at the game. She was really damn tactical in the way that she played, making the best of every small advantage or good hit and minimizing the shots she took in turn. She’d probably be pretty good at martial arts, if she did them, come to think of it. She slightly altered her tactics this time, and I was on the defensive the entire round. She managed to K.O. Clockblocker, but I traded her and took down Narwhal. I kept having to fight Lung as Chevalier. Lung was low, and a good, solid charge attack would polish him off, for sure. I kept trying to get Lung into position for me to land a charge attack, but Melody was onto my strat. Every time I’d have Chevalier stance and hold his sword at his side, she’d immediately use Lung’s flame-breath attack, which knocked Chevalier out of his stance. “Ugh, stop spamming,” I complained.

“I think I hear violin music all of a sudden, heh heh!” She taunted back.

I swapped over for Myrrdin last moment for a finisher on Lung, but she had predicted it. Miss Militia tagged in, and my wizard ate a rocket directly to the face, going: “Noooo, my magic!” She then finished off my mortally wounded Chevalier for the victory. We went to round three for the match point. I pulled out all my stops.

The fight was explosive right from the start. Each time she’d bring out Lung, I’d bring out Clockblocker and have him use his ranged attack of swinging around a rope and slapping Lung with it. I couldn’t get close to using his normal freezes, but I could get just outside Lung’s wreath of flames and freeze him, turning off his fire and allowing me to land some punches and kicks. Thankfully, his power didn’t actually work like that in real life; that’d be awful. When someone was frozen in time by his power, they were totally unable to be harmed. Things locked in time didn't react to anything at all.

I was creeping in on a victory, but it was going to be a close one. I was focused on landing my parries with Chevalier. Unfortunately, my attention to the tight timing of the parry counters was distracting my greater awareness of the game state, and Melody had maxed her meter out without me realizing it. When her team suddenly withdrew, I knew the game was over, and I set the controller aside and leaned back on my palms to watch the fireworks and cutscene.

I wondered who Melody was going to call in for her finisher, and wasn’t disappointed. With a scream of jet turbines and a whooshing roar, Dragon strafed over the top of my team, covering them in containment foam and immobilizing them. Flying off the side of the screen, she dropped down from the top a moment later in a vertical hover. She opened her mech suit’s mouth, and a flashing purple beam zig-zagged all over my side of the screen. A moment later, my remaining characters exploded in a shower of blood and precisely laser-cut meat chunks. The graphics were disgusting, but done in an over-the-top, unrealistic, violent way.

“Dang, Mel. Good work. You really have been doing your homework, huh?” She turned and grinned over at me, a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, and she wiped her sweaty palms on her yoga pants.

She responded with a “Yup!” Holding down a button for several seconds on her controller, she shut off the game, and my TV went to sleep moments later, the room going more or less dark with just the two of us in here without the lights on and the door closed. She set her controller on the table next to my bed, and I reached over the side of the bed, set mine on the floor, and slid it under the bed so it wouldn’t get stepped on. Bringing my legs up and over the side, I stretched out on the bed and brought my hands under the back of my head.

I yawned softly, and Melody snuggled up against me, pressing her front against my left side. We used to sleep together a lot, even as teens, until I’d triggered and started having regular vivid dreams and nightmares. With those came accidents and flailing around, and after I had elbowed her in the face and given her a wicked bloody nose one night, we’d stopped doing it.

Speaking quietly, she asked me, “Do you like it? Being a hero, I mean. Having powers?”

I went to speak but realized I was saying a kneejerk response, the one that came to memory simply from the sheer number of times I’d been asked it as Phoenix Strike doing tours and outreach. I closed my mouth and thought through my feelings. Feelings that weren’t always really easy to parse, understand, or properly handle.

“It’s… It’s complicated, Melody. I have a lot of feelings and thoughts about it, and not all of them make any sense or are reasonable. I’ve been trying to sort through them and iron them out so I can think about them with Jessica’s help. I do love aspects of being a hero. And it’s for sure what I want to do with my life. The stuff the other Wards complain about? I actually like some of it. The paperwork. The reports. The meetings. Documentation. Investigation. The fighting, of course.”

Melody was quiet as she listened to me, then asked: “I sense there’s a but coming?”

I let out a soft sigh. “Yeah. I have regrets. I mean, we’ve talked about it plenty. Getting soft discriminated against for being a parahuman. The baggage that comes with being one, the experience, and the toll it can have. Some people get awesome powers, and some people get shitty powers. But even for people with awesome powers, there is often like… I’m not sure how to put it exactly, but it changes people, and often not for the better. Jessica says we’re all shaped and changed by our traumatic experiences, and then further by the realization that we’re now parahumans.”

“Do you think your power is one of the shitty ones? Is that why you don’t use it much?”

“No, that’s not why I don’t use it much, Melody. The truth of the matter is that just…” I trailed off, and my lip trembled, and my eyes itched. I wasn’t going to cry here and now, but damn if it didn’t hurt to say outside my therapy appointments. I sniffed, and she hugged me tightly. I choked up a bit, took a few deep breaths, and let them out slowly before saying what I wanted to say: “My power scares me. Not like spooky haunted house jump scares Mel, but like… deeply terrifying.” I let out a trembling breath. “I wish I could be like Alexandria or Victoria. They’re strong, and they’re beautiful.”

She squeezed me again and told me: “No matter what you might look like when you’re using your power, you’re still my sister and I love you, now and forever. Even if you look like Medusa with your hair and eyes, you’re still my dumb, gay sister who’s too stupid to ask out a crush.”

I sniffed and let out a “Hah.” It did make me feel better, though.

“I mean it,” she said to me fiercely.

I slid my hands out from under my head and hugged her back tightly. “I know you do, and it means a lot to me to hear it. Thank you. I think… I’m maybe just more sensitive to seeing people jump or jolt because I’m projecting my own fears. It’s something we’ve been talking about. That and how I need to keep practicing using it so I can wear away at that apprehension and fear, through exposure.”

We held each other in silence for what felt like long minutes. I thought Melody might have drifted off when she finally spoke: “I wish I could be a parahuman like you. I know a lot of people say that because they want powers, fame, or money. But I wish I could have them just so I could be with you in this new life you’re moving on to.”

That got the waterworks flowing. I really felt like I didn’t deserve to have a sister like her. Choked up and with my voice thick with emotion, I said: “Sometimes I do too. But I don’t want you to ever wind up in such a horrible situation. The kind of stuff that can cause you to trigger Melody, it… It really fucks you up for life. I don’t want that for you, no matter what. I love you too much to ever want to see you experience something like that.”

The two of us sniffled and held one another, and at some point, I drifted off into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

We had a school trip today, and I was both looking forward to it and sort of dreading it at the same time. We were going to PRT Headquarters downtown, and Mr. Gladly was going to be our class proctor for the event. Visiting the PRT was something that interested me, and I had heard that these school trips were special, not like the guided tours you could take as a visitor to the building. I hoped that we’d see the organization and way things worked, and it wasn’t going to be an after-school special, shallow trip.

Of course, the trio would be in attendance. And that automatically meant that there would be some drama and a high chance of pranks. I only hoped that their ability to pull things would be a bit hampered by the fact that we’d be under close supervision throughout the trip. The class trip to PRT Headquarters wasn’t like a school trip to the museum. While the building was open to the public to an extent, it was still a secure facility, and its primary role wasn’t putting up with the antics of drama queens.

Speaking of which, I got my first ‘prank’ when I walked onto the transfer bus. Sophia, Madison, and Emma were sitting up front and giggling, always a bad sign that something was waiting for me. It was immature this time around, so I chalked it up to Madison’s doing. Each row of seats I walked past as I progressed towards the back of the bus had suddenly filled up the moment I got there. Bags were thumped on seats, people slid over to block the space, or I got the “holding this for my friend.” All the way to the back of the bus for me, and there were Greg, Leo, and Samantha. Figures.

Greg was a chatterbox who almost never stopped talking the moment you got on something he was interested in, hyperactive, and very annoying. Leo was also firmly in the loser’s club for his thick glasses, heavy acne, and taste in video games. Everyone called Sam ‘stinky’ at school because she was overweight and had some body odor despite being hygienic. I slid into the seat with Sam. Technically, the bench seats seated three, and between my build and Leo’s, there would have been space, but I wasn’t sitting next to Greg. I was pretty sure he liked me or something, too, because he was always awkward and trying to get me into conversations at school.

The bus filled, and Mr. Gladly walked the aisle and did a quick head count before returning to the front half of the bus and taking a seat for himself. We got into motion, and I rested against the side of the bus and looked out the window. Sam was pretty quiet most of the time, and I wasn’t looking to get into any kind of discussion if I could avoid it.

My mind was occupied with thoughts of how my costume was coming along. There were a few key things I still had to work on before it would be ready for use. I needed some kind of way of getting my glasses built into the suit, and the experiments that I had done so far all yielded poor results. I could get specialty sunglasses, diving goggles, or ski goggles. All had their issues. Consistent among all of them was the fact that I’d have to get a prescription from my optometrist and then send it to an optics shop or web store. The prices could be expensive, but the bigger issue was that I was a minor, and would need either a credit card for a web store or my dad along for a shop in the bay. I didn’t want my dad involved, and I also didn’t want a paper trail leading back to him either.

The bigger goggles that were made to fit prescription eyewear under their protection, like in the case of ski goggles, looked bad, and they were expensive. Sunglasses could get knocked off really easily, and then I’d not only be struggling to see clearly, but also potentially have parts of my identity exposed. I was making a full-coverage suit for a reason. That left diving goggles. It was nice that they would keep rain or dirt out, and they fit the bug motif I was going for with the rest of the suit design. I just didn’t think I could find ones that were large enough to fit a spare pair of lenses into that would also fit my face properly.

Isn’t Samantha into fashion design? Maybe she might have an idea. How to frame it properly…

“Hey, Samantha?” I looked over to her, and she pulled an earbud out of her ear. I envied her cellphone and ability to tune the world out with music.

“Hm, what was that?”

“You’re into fashion design, aren’t you?

She smiled a little and nodded her head.

“You ever do anything with cosplay? Sorry if that’s a weird question.”

Her face lit up, and she nodded with a blush. Speaking quietly so that only the two of us would hear over the stereo blasting in the bus–Mr. Gladly’s doing–and she said: “Oh, um. I dabble, just a little bit. I’d never be brave enough to go to a convention myself. I do like to watch videos online and look at blogs of people doing the work, though.”

She looked over me and stammered: “Y-you would be great at it, though, if you ever wanted to do it. You’ve got the figure for it, you could do whatever you wanted.”

I quirked a brow and tilted my head at her. Did she think I was going to cross-dress as a male character or something? I was not at all like the feminine anime and video game girls with outrageous figures.

She saw my look and clarified: “You have a silhouette like a model, which is good because you can draw attention to the garment, and because you can build up and layer things way easier if you’re slim than you can if you’re heavy.”

“Oh. I don’t really think about fashion much, or at all, but that makes sense. My mind was wandering just now, and I thought of a question with that kind of stuff.”

“Oh? Well, um. You can ask if you want, I might know, or I could look it up.” She waggled her smartphone.

“I’m sure there are a lot of people who cosplay who wear glasses-” I was interrupted by the bus hitting a hard bump or pothole, which bounced me up off the seat a few inches, sitting in the last row as we were. “Oof. Anyways, people who wear glasses that conflict with their costume, like maybe the costume has a helmet or something? Prescription glasses are expensive, you know? What do they do?”

I’d hit on a topic she was into based on her expression lighting up.

“Yeah! A big part of why I like costume designers and cosplay people is because they tend to work with scrap materials, crafting supplies, and other low-cost stuff, so that anyone can do it with some average household materials! So, um, is the helmet pretty closely fitted to the head? It’s not an exaggerated design where there is space to get glasses on under it?”

I nodded.

“And contacts wouldn’t work, right?” She asked.

“Right,” I agreed.

I tried them, and they were awful.

“So don’t laugh if this sounds dumb, but you know what most people would do in that situation? Just use hot glue. It’s like the duct tape for cosplay. It fixes everything.”

I worked through it. “So, just hot glue the lenses directly into the helmet? That won’t damage the lens? Most are soft plastic now.”

“Nope! It shouldn’t! If you were really concerned, you could maybe glue the frame with the arms taken off, but the nice thing about hot glue and why it’s a pretty common crafting glue is that it’s low temperature enough not to damage most fabrics and foams. And it cools very quickly, too. The hold is pretty good, unlike super glue.”

“...Isn’t the whole point of super glue that it has a really strong hold?”

“Oh, it does, but it’s not flexible, and it doesn’t handle shocks well. Fabric stretches and flexes, and it’s only really good on hard surfaces.”

“Oh. Huh.” I thought it over. I could probably get some goggles that would fit individual lenses, that were still shock and impact-rated. “That’s a really good idea, actually. Thanks, Sam.” She nodded with a little smile and stuck her earbud back in.

A little while later, we arrived at our destination, and the bus offloaded front to back. Mr. Gladly took roll as we stepped off, checking our names off a list on a clipboard and getting us through the main entrance to the lobby. Ours and three other Sophomore classes were in this morning's time slot. Other grades were going at different times. We gathered in parts of the lobby divided by those metal posts with seatbelt straps by class, and the various friend groups congregated according to social rank and circle.

I was in the losers’ club, but if it meant I didn’t have to deal with the trio, that was perfectly fine by me. They weren’t too far off, joking around and laughing about something or another, but I kept a lookout to see if they were glancing my way at all. That was a good indication that they were up to something. The coast seemed clear.

Someone wearing a bright lanyard drew my attention away. “Hello! I’m Morgan Rivera, I work here, and I’m going to be walking your class through…” I looked her over when she was introducing herself to Greg. She had on some professional wear that looked sort of expensive, and her makeup was very well done. She was also really attractive, but not precisely in the traditional sense. She was pretty muscular. Initially, I got very Glory Girl sort of vibes from her, with her blonde hair, blue eyes, and clear complexion. She was probably a preppy girl in high school; no doubt she had graduated from Arcadia. There was that sort of silver spoon, upper-class ease and confidence in the way she presented herself.

Just like the trio. Or what the trio thought they were. I already categorized her in my mind and put her in the compartment I thought she most likely fit into. I disliked her from the onset. She was looking at me. Oh, right. Introductions.

“Taylor,” I said, and stuffed my hands into my hoodie. I went back to trying to keep an eye on the three girls. The tour guide lady was talking to Greg, or should I say, Greg was info-dumping on her, but she seemed engaged for whatever reason. I guess I’d engage too if I was getting paid to do it. They were talking about the Wards or something. The lady raised her voice some and said something about Phoenix Strike sucking, and I saw Sophia’s head turn like it was on a swivel and look straight at her.

Huh? What’s this?

She had my attention now, and I felt smug that I’d nailed my impression of her. Those sorts always ran in the same circles. She waved to Sophia from alongside me and greeted her. I blinked when Sophia gave her the type of look she’d give me. Strange.

“You know her?” I asked the tour guide. She nodded and told me that she had competed against her in track before. That explained the muscles. I looked back at Sophia, smirking about something while Emma and Madison laughed. The tour guide leaned in close to me and whispered: “You probably know this already since she’s in your grade, but she’s a real fucking cunt.”

What?!

I looked at her, my brain trying to scramble around and figure out if this was yet another ploy of theirs. She looked like she really meant it.

Did Sophia cheat at track, or something? She probably would do things like that, come to think of it.

I found myself grinning a little bit without even thinking about it, and the guide lady smiled back, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

Greg inserted himself back into the conversation, and she looked away to talk to him. I glanced at the ID badge hanging over her bust.

Morgan Rivera.

A couple of minutes passed, and we went ahead and got started. The tour was long, and I was actually enjoying it because it was a fairly deep dive and comprehensive tour. There was a little bit of gimmick stuff here and there to try and wow people and get their attention drawn to various things, but it wasn’t too bad. The tou- Ms. Rivera seemed to like, really know what she was talking about as we went from floor to floor. There was a time or two I thought about asking a question, but I didn’t want to chance drawing attention to myself.

We did what was called “Operations” first, which turned out to be the part where the street officers worked. I was able to get a good look at the gear they wore, and while it seemed a bit excessive at first, Ms. Rivera explained the basic elements and considerations. Officers had to deal with engagements with supervillains, heavily armed gang members, and groupies, and a lot of the big guns they carried were really non-lethal despite looking excessively lethal to my untrained eyes.

Eating breakfast with Dad this morning before school, I had some juice and a cup of coffee, and I was low-key scoping out bathroom stops because there hadn’t been any time up until now at school. When we finished the tour of the Public Relations floor, there was a brief break where people were getting extra goodies. I set my bag of stuff they had handed out to each of us on a water fountain and darted into the women’s bathroom. I relieved myself and was about to leave the stall when I heard the door hiss open and sneakers on the tile walk in. Without even thinking about what I was doing, I brought my legs up and rested my shoes on the seat, hiding like we were in Winslow.

The door hissed open again, and someone else walked in extra quietly. I thought I was being silly, maybe, then I heard Ms. Rivera speak: “Is your neck okay? I’m sorry if I bruised it.”

I heard a familiar snort, and then Sophia of all people responded: “You shouldn’t be. And you shouldn’t apologize, either. You always go too easy on people. Yesterday was the first time you proved there’s some fight in you.”

What the heck!?

“Well. It wasn’t my intent to lose my cool and scream in your face, and I felt bad about it. It wasn’t professional.”

Maybe she’s a coach or personal trainer too? She looks like she could be, certainly. But she said she really didn’t like Sophia! Do you get to pick your clients at a gym, or are they assigned to you as a trainer?

My mind whirled with the possibilities. She truly seemed like she didn’t like Sophia. Surely this wasn’t ano-

“Like I said yesterday, our job isn’t to be professional. It’s to win.”

Oh, so it is sports-related.

“Keep your voice down; there are civilians right outside, and one of them could be snooping.” I held my arms around my knees and bit my lip to keep silent. The term civilians kept looping in my head.

They started talking much quieter, and I was having a hard time making out what they were saying between the noise outside, the soft music playing in the bathroom speakers, and the sound of my own heart racing in my chest.

“...you’re a pussy pushover…” Sophia’s voice was barely audible over the background but sharp and insulting in ways I was deeply familiar with.

So they really don’t get along, then. This is hard to keep track of.

I tapped my power and tried to get a better idea of what was going on. There weren’t a ton of bugs in here; the place was kept almost distressingly clean, but no place was entirely free of bugs. I got blurry and indistinct shapes of the two standing, their body language looked a bit confrontational: arms crossed, facing each other directly. It made my head hurt to try and concentrate on it, so I went back to listening.

Something about reports and meetings… She called Morgan a name, or to fuck off, or something… Hating people like her.

Morgan was speaking again, and she was speaking more calmly than Sophia was, and it was extremely hard to make out. I could have sworn she said something about killing someone, but there’s no way that was right.

Sophia, again, agitated, lectured: “Who cares if you killed someone by accident? They’re drug dealers, criminals, murderers. Racists.” Something about a dog-eat-dog world. I couldn’t make out the rest, and she stomped off.

Why is Sophia talking to Ms. Rivera like that? I mean, sure, she talks to a lot of people like that, and they for sure know each other, even if they’re not friends. Didn’t sound like there was any love lost between them; it was a pretty cat-fight exchange. But what was that about killing people? Drug dealers and criminals?

My mind was racing a mile a minute, and I waited to make sure Ms. Rivera had left the bathroom and someone else had entered before leaving and getting my PRT goodie and informational bag from where I’d stashed it by the fountain. The tour was getting back on track shortly. We went to the research division next, which would have been cool, except I couldn’t stop thinking about that entire exchange. It just didn’t make sense, no matter how many times I tried to switch my viewpoint around to consider what the implications were.

They seemed very different from one another. Ms. Rivera seemed well put together and composed, and I was pretty sure they’d been talking about training for sports or in a gym or something in the first part of the encounter. Sophia wasn’t a great student, but was a sorta successful jock on track. She didn’t dress super nicely, probably the worst of the trio now that I thought about it, usually in sporty clothing. I didn’t get the impression her family was very well off.

So what about the talk of killing criminals and drug dealers? I could maybe see Sophia doing some kind of vigilante justice crap like that, but not Ms. Rivera. I dug through my gift bag for clues. Two T-shirts, some coasters and posters, pins and stickers. A handful of booklets talking about what to do in emergencies, like an Endbringer attack or a major supervillain crisis. I was looking over a big laminated fact sheet that could be hung up with some included poster adhesives or magnets. There was a bunch of phone numbers on it.

PRT Emergency Services Dispatch, PRT Emergency Healthcare Services, PRT Crisis Hotline, PRT Trigger Event Hotline… There were so many branches and subdivisions… What’s this? PRT CrimeWatch Reporting Tipline? Hmm.

I furrowed my brows in thought as the tour group oohed and aahed at some laser zapper thing being shot behind polarized safety glass. The buzz of it firing reminded me of my bugs. Reporting Tipline. Was it possible that Sophia was an informant? She didn’t seem the type, but I guess that was also entirely the point. Was Ms. Rivera an informant? It had been Sophia telling her, “So what if you killed someone on accident.” I mean, she literally worked for the PRT, she wouldn’t use an anonymous tipline, she’d just go through her official channels.

Had one of them been involved in reporting something, and someone had gotten killed because of it? It was plausible in my mind, but it kept nagging away at me. The theory sort of fit, but would have made way more sense if the conversation had been reversed. It just didn’t add up, and it bothered me. And it still didn’t explain their weird dynamic. Sophia clearly didn’t like Ms. Rivera, and Ms. Rivera, while more professional, certainly didn’t seem to like Sophia, either.

There was the fact that it was odd for members of the trio to break off and do stuff on their own. They obviously did things in their private lives, but they tended to stick to each other like fly tape at school. Sophia must have split off with the intent of having a private moment away from the other two with Ms. Rivera. Probably tailed her into the bathroom like she’d done to me so many times.

My mind was brought back to the present as we entered an elevator and went to the last stop on the tour. The headquarters of The Wards. People were excited and talking in hushed tones like we were in a theater and a big Aleph blockbuster was about to start playing soon. When the doors opened, people at the front of the elevator gasped, and as we shuffled out, I got to see why. The corridor down to a door that looked like it belonged in a bank vault was all reflective chrome. Ms. Rivera held up a thumbs-up in front of the door and it unsealed with exactly the kind of sound I’d expect it to make: utterly silent.

Inside was a weirdly dome-shaped and partitioned area, very visually distinct and entirely different than what we’d seen elsewhere in the building. The place looked like it could survive a nuclear blast, or something of the sort.

“Yooo! What’s up, Winslow!?” Kid Win called out from on top of a flying hoverboard; he was slowly drifting around the large central room.

People started cheering and clapping like crazy. He seemed to be enjoying himself, too. He did a little demo of his flying skills, then shot some laser pistols into a cardboard cutout figure, and people cheered louder. Hopping off his flying skateboard he directed most of the class over to one recessed alcove where there was a bunch of seating and beanbags for some interactive Q & A. Most of the class was hardcore into that, and some of the others wandered around checking the place out, which we’d already been told was fine.

The thing that had caught my eye was a curved wall section with full-size mannequins of The Wards team, each totally decked out in their gear. One of my goals while I was here was that I wanted to try to get some ideas for my hero outfit. This was the perfect opportunity to do it, while everyone else was mostly distracted with Kid Win or doing their own thing. Nobody else was looking at the display.

I made my way over. I had done a little research on PHO about utility belts, but a lot of the information on there was based on a mix of media, interviews, and no small amount of speculation. The wiki was tightly moderated, and things that were speculative were clearly marked as such, but this was a great chance to get an up-close look and see first-hand.

I had recently finished a streamlined storage pack that was attached to the back of my suit, and I had been trying to brainstorm ideas of what to put in it. It wasn’t terribly huge, but I had some space to work with and needed ideas. Glancing over the outfits, I decided to take a look at Phoenix Strike’s setup. She was very mobile and didn’t fly or anything, and that probably shaped her decision-making process. She was sorta lame as far as heroes went. She didn’t seem to have much in the way of powers. Her page listed her as a very low-level brute and mover. She was best known for being the most forgettable of the Brockton Bay Wards.

Her belt looked pretty rugged despite not being super bulky. Black, in contrast to the rest of her suit, and clearly military, or maybe police-inspired. The metal buckle was weird; it was something I didn’t recognize at all. I leaned forward to try and get a look inside the numerous differently shaped pouches on the belt.

“Taylor, right? Did you enjoy the tour?” It was her, Ms. Rivera. I’d been so caught up looking at the display that I hadn’t paid attention to her approaching me.

“I thought it was pretty informative, all things considered.” I couldn’t get a good angle to look into the flaps of the pouch without being super obvious about what I was doing, even though the lighting inside the display was very bright.

“Fan of Phoenix Strike? I noticed you seem into the costume.”

I wonder if she knows? I was still a little apprehensive about that whole thing in the bathroom earlier. She nodded and proceeded to rattle off the entire contents of the belt like she knew it stone cold. Even going and pointing out specific things and where they were placed.

Whoah.

I looked at her and considered. There was a handful of things I thought about saying, then thought twice about. The way she seemed to know this stuff inside and out was impressive. I thought about the potential that maybe she was an officer or something. I said, “I sorta figured you just worked here as a tour guide or office worker, but you seem to know a heck of a lot about some of the more detailed things.” That sounded worse than what I had meant.

She didn’t seem put off by it at all, nodding at me and smiling. “You could say I wear a lot of different hats around here. Office paperwork, meetings, PR, outreach, and even doing some personal assistant work for some of the heroes.”

Outreach. I wonder if informants would fall under that?

She handed me a business card, and I looked at it. It said: Parahuman Response Team, East Northeast: Brockton Bay. There were the same sorts of numbers on it that I’d seen on the laminated sheet in my bag, albeit significantly pared down. I was confused by it. Flipping it over, she’d written her name and phone number on the back. She had very girly handwriting.

I thought about her relation to Sophia, and looked up from the card to her face.“Is this… For what, exactly?” I asked. “You do this for everyone on the tour, or what?”

She tilted her head and told me that yes, everyone got contact information, but that she’d taken notice that I was paying attention during some parts of the tour in a way that had caught her attention. That I could ask her any questions I might think of later. She smiled warmly and then tacked on: “Or if you just want to chat sometime. Shoot me a text.”

That would require having a cellphone. But maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have someone I could ask questions to. And maybe I can glean some more information about what the story is with her and Sophia.

“I don’t-” I sighed. “I don’t text. I don’t have a cellphone. Just a regular landline at home.” There was one thing I could think of right away that she had said about the contents of the utility belt. “What’s CS gas?”

She laughed out loud rather abruptly, and I felt like she might have been laughing at me. I was so used to that being the norm that it made me really defensive when talking to others. She waved a hand and composed herself, going on to explain that she felt she was perpetuating a bad habit imparted on her of using technical terms and names for things, and that it was ‘just’ tear gas.

I knew from movies and the news what that was. Apparently the name “CS gas” referred to the chemical composition of the gas and was the official name it had within the military and law enforcement.

I peered up at Phoenix Strike’s almost egg-like helmet. It encapsulated her entire head, there were no eyes or facial features whatsoever, only an emblazoned symbol of a bird’s head in the bright orange highlight colors of her suit. There were some holes for what might be lenses and other sensors hidden in the helmet, but I got the impression that it was tinkertech in nature.

She must have a respirator or filtration system in there if she carries tear gas on her belt. I wonder what else her helmet does. I wonder if I could put some kind of pocket into the inside of my mask to stick one of those medical masks in? Would that work against teargas? I wonder if it would make breathing hard.

We chatted a bit more, and I was left with the impression that Ms. Rivera seemed pretty sincere and really knowledgeable about PRT and cape things. Not at all like what I had her pegged as at first. She split off shortly thereafter and guided us back out to the main lobby to head back to Winslow. I was quiet on the bus ride back.

I had an awful lot of things to think about.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I woke up very well rested. Melody was still snuggled up next to me and had, at some point, grabbed some blankets and plugged my phone in for me. It was Sunday, and while my family didn’t attend church, we still had sort of a busy schedule. We’d made plans to go hang out with Amy and Vicky and see a matinee early, and then I had a patrol scheduled for closer to sundown later. I could smell breakfast cooking, and it smelled really damn good. French toast and coffee scents were wafting up the stairs. I reached over and gave Melody’s shoulder a light shake to wake her up.

“Mmmmugh. It’s too early.”

I leaned over her ear and whispered, “But, Mel, French toast.”

Her eyes flicked open, and she said, “I’m awake.”

I laughed out loud and got out of bed. It was her favorite food, we were both quite fond of breakfast foods in general, and we tried to eat one all-hands family breakfast each weekend. Dad was a great cook. So was mom, but dad always cooked family breakfasts. Stretching out next to the side of the bed, I rolled my shoulders and cracked my lower back before grabbing a change of clothes and getting dressed. I could hear Melody tapping away on her phone behind me, still on the bed.

“Something going on? Interesting news?”

“Nah, just coordinating with Amy. Making sure we’re still on. I doubt she’s up yet, though.” I applied some anti-perspirant and pulled on a Brocton Bay University t-shirt to complement my leggings.

“I think today’s the day,” I told Melody. I’d been thinking about some of the stuff she told me last night.

“Yeah? You can do it, sis. I got your back no matter what.”

“Alright, I’m starving, let’s eat!”

I headed downstairs, and Melody came down behind me in her PJs. Mom was already seated at the table, had a laptop next to her plate, and was rapidly tapping away at the keyboard. Dad was behind the stove cooking up more French toast, a stacked plate already in the middle of the table. I helped myself to an XL mug of coffee and took a seat next to Mom. My nerves were lit up, my chest feeling tight with apprehension over how this conversation might go. Melody slipped into the chair next to mine and looked over at me with an encouraging smile on her lips.

I took a sip of my coffee, then cleared my throat. No time like the present. If I kept putting it off, my nerves would get worse, and I’d never say what I’d wanted to. I knew this well, from being in this exact place and situation no less than a dozen times already.

“Hey, uh. Mom? Dad?”

“Yeah?” Dad didn’t turn away from the stove. Mom paused her typing just a moment to glance over at me. I blushed, probably beet red from how hard my cheeks were burning right now.

“I’m gay.”

Mom dropped her eyes back to the laptop screen.

Oh no…

“That’s nice, dear,” she replied and started typing again.

“Hi, gay, I’m Dad,” Dad said from the stove.

Melody clapped her hands, slowly. I pushed my plate back and buried my face in my hands on top of the table. I didn’t know if I wanted to be elated or die of shame. My voice muffled by my palms and no doubt straining, I asked: “You knew already? Did Melody tell you?”

It would have been sweet of her to break the ice-

“Other way around, actually,” Melody said from my left.

What?

Dad chuckled, and Mom said, “Dear, you’ve been staring at other girls' chests and behinds since the day you turned 14. It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

I let out a little croak. If it were possible to die of shame, I was about to find out. Melody patted me on the back with a couple of hollow thumps. “Told ya you were overthinking it, dummy.”

I took a moment longer to take a few deep breaths and let them out, then sat up, composed myself, and fanned my toasty face. Melody grinned over at me, then took her fork and speared a three-deep stack of French toast slices and dropped them on her plate. Today was going to be a long day. I pulled my plate back over and started to dole out some of the goodies for myself.

After breakfast, we got ready to head out. Melody was going to be driving today, like usual, and we’d have to stop and pick up the Dallons. They didn’t live a terrible distance from us, and we were going to catch a movie over at the theater by the boardwalk. The place downtown was a bit fancier than the theater by the boardwalk, but it was also twice as expensive, the parking was awful, and the concessions were outrageously priced.

We took dad’s SUV, which was bigger and roomier than mom’s car, and Melody was more used to driving it. She was a very good driver. I put some tunes on the radio on the way over to the Dallons. I tended to like the heavier stuff. High-energy and aggressive tunes, my so-called ‘workout music,’ even though I listened to it basically wherever. Melody didn’t mind it, although she was more into hip-hop. We had some overlap there.

I turned down the stereo when we pulled into the Dallons' driveway and texted Victoria. Vicky and Amy came right out and hopped in, and we were off. I turned the music back up, not quite as loud as before, still loud, but the kind you could talk over.

“I can’t believe you listen to this, Morgan!” Victoria said from the backseat, and I heard Amy smack her on the arm. “Hey!” I turned and looked over the shoulder of the front passenger seat into the back, and then stuck my tongue out and threw devil’s horns with one hand at Victoria.

Victoria rolled her eyes, and Amy giggled. We hit a stoplight, and I turned back around and bobbed my head to the beat. Melody ticked the volume down a few notches with a control on the steering wheel and called back to our passengers: “Hey, did Morgan tell you she dropped big news to our parents this morning?” She glanced over at me, a giant shit-eating grin on her face.

Oh, you BITCH!

As if she read my mind, she stuck her tongue out at me and went back to a wolfish grin.

“What was it? News from the Protectorate, or University?” Amy asked.

“No… I came out to them.”

“Hey, nice!” Victoria leaned forward and held her hand out, and I slapped her a high-five, feeling honestly relieved.

“What was that like?” Amy asked me after the clapping of palms.

“Oh my god, super embarrassing, I thought I was going to die.”

She followed up with another question: “Why, did they not take it well?”

I groaned loudly and shook my head. “No… Fucking! They already knew! For years! FOUR! I’ve been pulling my hair out for half of that trying to figure out if I wanted to tell them, and how to do it, and it was just like… ‘Yeah, okay, cool.’ I felt so dumb.”

I twisted around to look in the back, and Amy was like, trying to shrink into the seat or something. She was also blushing pretty heavily. I tilted my head and cocked a brow at her.

She wrung her hands in her lap and stammered as we set back into motion. “M-me too,” escaped her lips, barely audible over even the recently-lowered music. Victoria’s head whipped over towards her, and she gasped.

“Ames, really!?” Victoria’s tone was incredulous.

The shy girl literally flinched. She looked over at her sister, dropped her eyes back down to her own lap, then nodded rapidly. Victoria had this look of dawning realization, her eyes slowly widening and eyebrows rising.

“Wait, so that’s why none of our double dates ever go anywhere? You should have told me you weren’t into guys!” Vicky started laughing raucously, leaned over, and held her arms open for Amy to hug her. Amy’s lower lip trembled before she almost flew into her sister’s arms, and they death-gripped one another.

“Whoo! This is awesome!!” Melody called out to the two in the back seat.

“Hell yeah! You rock, Amy! I want a hug too after we get out!” I said gleefully before turning back around. I heard some sniffling and whispers in the backseat, but it sounded like happy sniffles, so all was good. Melody looked over at me and stuck her tongue back out again. I fiddled with my phone and got some less aggressive and more upbeat music going, and we made good time on our trip over to the boardwalk.

We had bought tickets in advance online and printed them out, so getting into the movie was going to be easy. I got caught up in my back-owed hug quote from Amy, and I picked her up clean off the ground when I did, her feet dangling a couple of inches off the pavement. We loaded up on some way-too-big popcorn buckets and drinks and headed into the theater, which was practically empty.

Today’s film was going to be an import from Earth Aleph: The Day the Earth Stood Still. It was a pretty interesting movie, maybe due in large part to how different our culture was over here compared to Aleph’s. We had contact with them due to an accident caused by a tinker making a hole between dimensions, but both sides had basically immediately quarantined, and it had never been lifted in the decades since.

They didn’t have Endbringers or parahumans on Earth Aleph, which was sorta strange. Instead, they had a way richer media environment. We were a bit ahead of them on some technologies that had been reverse-engineered from tinkertech or invented by thinkers. They were ahead of us in other technologies. It varied a lot based on the specific sector and type of technology. The one thing we did share and trade back and forth was digital information, like these films.

After the film, we stopped over to Fugly Bob’s, a local greasy napkin ‘gourmet’ burger joint. The gourmet part was dubious at best, but the burgers were pretty darn good, and it was a local staple and popular tourist spot. By the time we were done, it was going on 4 PM, and I had to get going. We said our goodbyes, and I split off from the rest of them to catch a bus to downtown for work.

I checked in, hit the Wards locker rooms, and got into my real costume. I had a good feeling about the patrol tonight and had been riding an emotional high ever since this morning. I could tell this was going to be my night. Maybe I could take down like a mid-level thug or get some lynchpin in this smuggling case. Perhaps even a villain, although I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d stand off against the ABB’s two big guns. Maybe they had some merc capes?

Things have been going my way. I’m going to try and use my power a bit harder tonight if I do get into anything potentially ugly.

I hesitated on my selection of boots and armwear for tonight. I had some options to pick from. I think tonight I was going to stick with my usual handwraps, but I’d spice things up and go for my big, bad ass-kicker boots. They were knee-high and looked like a motocross boot or something similar: rugged, secure, and heavily armored. I called them my ass-kicker boots because they were pretty heavy, and they acted like a potent force multiplier to any kicks I landed. I grabbed my belt, strapped it on, and my helmet. It took a moment for my helmet to power on and connect to my PRT phone and radio set, but the integrated communications and information-gathering and internet search functions, when linked, were priceless.

I really owed Chris another huge thank-you for making and maintaining this. This helmet was the best part of my entire setup, by far. It made my fine-tuned utility belt look basic by comparison. I banded my hair up into a high pony and then folded it into a rough bun at the back of my head, then hit the hidden release on the helmet. It split in half, and I brought the back half up against the back of my head, making sure no hair was sticking out anywhere, then toggled the mechanism. It whirred closed and locked shut, and I felt the cuff around my neck snug up against the skin. The filtration system and displays were already up and waiting for me, and while the helmet didn’t hard-seal against my skin, it was close, and the positive air pressure kept out any airborne nastiness. I formed two fists, cracking my knuckles in the process.

Let’s do this.

Tonight I’d be working hand-in-hand with my PRT officer handler, David Collins. David would be providing me with transport to the dockyards and back in his unmarked SUV, and then splitting from me to keep an eye on the movements in the area. We related information back and forth to one another. He typically had his electro-tint windows blacked out and the vehicle idling somewhere within a couple of miles with his computers up, watching my feeds and giving me directions, support, and advice. Tonight would be no different, as we were working on a dedicated PRT investigation. This was his baby as much as it was mine.

I hopped into his ride in the secure garage, and we took off. We kept pre-game chatter to a minimum most nights. He was always telling me, “Morgan, remember. Two eyes, two ears, one mouth.” His way of saying to be observant and aware, more than just another loudmouth cape. It was good advice, and I tried to follow it the best I could. Awareness was a huge part of being a good hand-to-hand combatant.

“I have a good feeling about tonight,” I broke the relatively long stretch of silence we’d been riding in, the sounds of road noise only broken by regular PRT dispatch radio calls and updates.

“Being positive is good, but don’t set your expectations too high. Most stakeouts don’t net much.”

I nodded in my sealed headwear like a goober.

“I’ve been feeling more confident with using my power, too. If anything does happen.”

He glanced over, his salt-and-pepper hair catching a passing street light. “That’s good to hear. I remember you telling me you’ve been working on it. But remember, powers aren’t what make a good hero a good hero. There’s plenty of powerful people out there, heroes and villains alike, who aren’t good at doing this, or have their careers cut short.”

“Oh, I know,” I replied, before continuing: “I know that’s my weakest aspect. I’m doing what I can to get over my uh… hangups with using it.”

David grunted. “It’s good to know when the bad cards are in your hand, and to keep your hand close to your chest. I don’t mean that your power is your weakness, just- I think you know what I mean.”

“I do," I replied.

"You’re good at this, Morgan. You’d make a good officer,” he said.

“Thanks, David.” Leaving the unspoken part of that left unsaid. I knew he meant well.

I’d be a good officer, if I could be. But I can never be an officer. PRT doesn’t allow parahumans to be officers or in the command structure. Only supporting staff, analytics, PR, and R&D divisions. And even then, there’s usually strings attached.

Today was a good day. I wasn’t going to let dark thoughts drag me down.

I focused my attention inward, towards my perception of my power. I always felt that it was like water, but deep water. Like the deep ocean, it was dark, bottomless, and vast. My imagination filled it in as being like barely-lit and usually gentle seas. Sometimes the water got violent, but not right now. I lowered myself in. It was cold, but the way a pool was cold in the summer. It wasn’t so bad once you adjusted to the temperature.

I took deep, slow breaths and did my best to remain composed and focused. I thought about the strength of the waves crashing into shore, the speed at which seas could go from calm to a tempest, the violence and intensity of an Atlantic storm raging. I wanted to tap that, but just a little bit. I felt my power stir around me, and the water started to rock and bounce me as waves formed and grew. There, not too much.

I felt the physical manifestation of my power within my body, and it pulled me out of my pseudo-meditation. A central weight in my chest, reaching out roots towards my extremities. It wasn’t painful or unpleasant. Quite the opposite, it brought warmth and energy in its wake. It was the fine sensations that made my breath hitch in my throat. I felt… things moving under my skin, wriggling and squirming like worms or parasites. I felt ripples and waves travel through my skin, my organs shifting and oozing around like they were separate organisms inside me. My gorge rose in my throat, and I felt the initial stirrings of a panic attack rustling around my nervous system.

Deep breath in. Hold. Let it out slowly. Calm.

I swallowed the knot that’d risen and cleared my throat. That was a little better. I squeezed my right fist, and I felt powerful. Strong. Lifting a thigh, my boots felt like they hardly weighed anything at all now. Good, good. My problem was always either getting panicked and shutting it down right away or letting it go too far, and having things start happening to my anatomy that I didn’t have much control over.

Opening my eyes, I saw through my helmet's map that we were idling in a dark lot behind an abandoned commercial building. Feeling sheepish, I looked over to David and asked him, “We haven’t been here long, have we?”

He tapped on the keyboard of the laptop he’d swung out on a swivel arm and shook his head, saying: “No. A couple of minutes. You seemed busy. I needed to check on things anyway.”

“Okay. I’m going. I’ll keep in touch.” I reached for the door handle.

“Good luck out there. Be careful. Lots of reported activity already tonight. You might be right, and this is one of the big ones.”

I slid out of the SUV and shut the door as quietly as I could, then crouched down and jumped up to the landing of the fire escape attached to the building. Climbing up the stairs two at a time, I made my way to the rooftop of the building in short order. The sun was setting, and streetlights were already on, the ones that worked in this part of town. It wasn’t a great percentage that did.

I preferred to stick to the rooftops. When I amped myself up, I was able to jump between two-lane streets, and going from building to building was very easy. I glanced up at the miniature map I had in the top right periphery of my vision. Focusing on it automatically enlarged it for me; the helmet software tracked my eyes and focus, no need for external controls. I was about three blocks out from the warehouse I wanted to keep an eye on. No problem.

I imagined I knew about five percent of what it was like to fly when I was sailing through the air between buildings. Victoria had told me before that flying was liberating in ways that were hard to put into words. I believed her. Run, jump, sail through the air, land, tuck, roll, spring back up, and run for the next jump. It was insanely fun and good exercise. Until you ran into the rooftops where people had parties. Rolling through broken glass sucked pretty bad. I was always scared I’d wind up catching a dirty needle in some of these areas, too. The immunizations they gave us as Wards were pretty intense, but the thought always lingered in the back of my mind.

Landing on the roof that I wanted to be on, I made my way over to the unfinished and abandoned half-constructed shell of a building butted up against it, and lightly jumped up two feet to the open floor. The building was five stories and nothing more than a giant concrete and rebar skeleton. Most of the floors didn’t have full walls, only partial coverings, and sheets of plastic and tarps hung everywhere. It was across a big open storage and parking lot from the large warehouse I was looking to spy on. Being in the building meant that I wouldn’t be silhouetted against the night sky, and I could observe in relative safety.

The stairways inside the building were fully enclosed, but most lacked doors. I made my way up from the second story to the fourth. On the landing of the third floor, there were a handful of homeless people huddled around a small fire burning in a metal bucket. They were boiling water in a battered pot sitting on a metal grate over the fire, and collectively hushed and looked at me when I came up the steps, apparently not who they were expecting.

“I’m not here. You didn’t see me, I didn’t see you, nothing happened or is going to happen. Sounds good?” I asked, my helmet’s voice scrambler active. They nodded quickly, and I gave them a thumbs up before heading up another flight.

“They haven’t been here before on your patrols, right?” David asked in my ear.

“No, first time. I hope they don’t do something stupid.” I replied.

“Homeless often get along by remaining as unnoticeable as possible. Possible they alert the ABB, but the ABB isn’t known for taking care of people, even their members, so I think it’s unlikely.”

I stood in a room with free-hanging tarps for walls, and looked out through a gap in two sheets down and across the lot. The telephoto optics in my helmet zoomed in and amplified the light so I could see as clearly as day.

Jackpot.

One of the loading bays to the warehouse was open, and a large five-ton truck was pulled entirely inside the building. Muted area lights were on in the warehouse, and people were loading long, narrow rectangular crates with rope handles into the back of the truck. This was exactly what we had been looking for. Proof that the ABB was shipping in bulk arms, either for sale or use. The PRT was wanting a reason to step up to more dramatic and direct enforcement actions against the gang, and we needed concrete evidence of something big going down to get the funding and authorization from D.C. This was it.

David came in over the radio: “See if you can zoom in and pan around some. Are any of the crates open?”

I did as he asked, but the angle was bad. I couldn’t see where they were collecting the boxes from, only the truck they were loading them into.

“I’m going to reposition to try and see if I can get a better angle.”

“Copy. Be careful.”

Moving quickly, but quietly, I went over to the side of the building and looked down at the roof two stories below. That was… A pretty big drop. I looked around a bit more and got an idea. Getting a little momentum, I ran and dropped down, parkouring between a wall and two support beams down two stories, and then over to the rooftop I came in on. I scanned the warehouse again. Still no good. A run and two jumps later, and I was able to see into the half of the warehouse on the right side of the truck, but there wasn’t anything there but some floodlights with colored plastic taped over them. I’d only seen about five, maybe six people loading the trucks. They were fairly robust-looking, but I was pretty sure I could take them out easily, even if they were armed.

“David, I can’t get an angle. It looks like the truck is mostly loaded. I want to move into the warehouse to see if I can get a better look. I think I can keep out of sight, or worst case, take them out if I need to.”

“I’ve radioed it in already. The Protectorate will be here in fifteen. Probably best to just wait it out.”

I chewed my lower lip. “I don’t think they’re going to still be here in fifteen minutes. I really think I should move in. This is the biggest break we’ve gotten in months.”

There was a long moment of silence before David came back: “I hate to say it, but I think you might be right. Move in, if you feel up to it, but be careful. And if you think something’s off, get out of there. I’m pulling out now and driving your way as fast as I can. Be there in five.”

“Copy, don’t set off any lookouts they might have posted on the way over. I’ll be fine. PS, moving out.”

My palms were a little sweaty as I dropped down and started doing my best silent jog around the outskirts of the big lot. Luckily, there were plenty of gravel and sand piles, stacks of rebar, and rotting plywood to provide cover. I got right up to the side of the warehouse and looked for a side entrance. There was a door that was propped open by a brick, probably how the ABB came and went. There was a little bit of talking echoing inside the building, but nothing nearby. I cracked the door and looked inside. Nothing but more building supplies, but this time inside. I slid the door open enough to squeeze in.

Making my way between stacks of materials and industrial machines, I worked my way closer to the truck and the open bay door. Peeking around the corner of a shipping container, I saw that there were five people, four guys and a lady, smoking cigarettes. Tatted to hell with gang ink and wearing the green of the ABB on bits of their clothing. I caught them taking a break, perfect. Putting the truck between myself and the group, I snuck over to the few remaining crates left unloaded and unclasped the latch and lifted the lid. It was filled with assault rifles.

I whispered in my helmet, making sure my external voice transmitter was off, so I was only speaking to David. “I got it, you’re still recording, right?”

“Yeah, it’s logging, I’m still driving, can’t look. Get out of there!”

“Going, going!”

I closed the lid and redid the clasp, turned around, and walked face-first into someone standing directly behind me. I was so focused on collecting the evidence that I never heard them come up behind me. I took a step back and looked up to see a black bodysuit and a bright red grinning demon mask.

Oni Lee!

His voice rasped out from behind his mask: “I don’t recall the Wards being invited. Looking to join up?” He laughed at his own joke, and I heard some footsteps approaching from the other side of the truck and guns getting cocked.

Shit! Shit! SHIT!

My hands darted to my belt as fast as I could move them. I’d trained for this. I couldn’t panic, not here, not now. Oni Lee jumped backwards and yanked a pair of knives out from the bandoliers on his chest. I pulled a flashbang grenade from my belt, yanked the pin, let go of the spoon, and dropped it at my feet. I had seconds to move. I launched into a sprint for the door, my eyes flicking up to the very top of my helmet’s display to turn on my helmet dampeners. I pulled another flashbang, armed it, tossed it at the group of gangers, and was pulling out a smoke grenade when the first one went off.

For a split second, the inside of the warehouse was lit up far brighter than the inside of an operating room. The detonation was heavily blocked out by my helmet, sparing my hearing and keeping my balance intact, but the impact of the blast hit me in my chest like I’d just been flipped straight onto a mat in the dojo. I didn’t stop running and hucked a smoke behind me after igniting it. I was maybe a third of the way across the big lot when Oni cut me off by teleporting directly in my way.

“Tisk, tisk, Phoenix Strike. You thought you’d get a grenadier with a flashbang.” He waved his twin tanto daggers in an elaborate flourish. I eyed the belt of grenades he had strapped across his chest. Those were decidedly not non-lethals. I wasn’t going to be able to outrun a teleporting Mover like him. This was going to be a fight, a real parahuman fight, and my heart was racing. A flick of my eyes across the interface of my helmet re-enabled my external voice transmitter, with the masking active.

I sent a nudge to my power for a bit more juice. I was going to try to end this with a quick knock-out and get the hell out of here if I could. I thought about trying to drop CS gas and force him to fight in it, but he could force me out of my advantageous zone with his fragmentation grenades. And if I used smoke to try and cover my exit, he could get to a vantage point and re-engage me in the time it took to blink with his teleportation. I started to circle some, and he followed suit. I wasn’t taking my eye off him for a second, but I wanted to check on the status of any additional pursuit. The smoke was starting to obscure the entrance to the warehouse, and the gangers I saw were either lying on the ground or struggling to move on their hands or knees. Good.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” I replied.

“I appreciate a lady who can blas-”

I didn’t give him a chance to finish whatever banter that was going to be. I dashed forward fast and leaped into a flying kick straight to his chest. He was fast and brought his knives up, but I was quicker. I felt the kick barely connect, and then I flew straight through a poof of white dust.

Shit, a clone! He teleported!

I salvaged a landing with a roll and popped back to my feet, only to feel a sharp, searing pain slice across my left shoulder. Without having to think about it, I spun with a backfist strike to the mask and met another cloud of dust. I spun back around and leaned back in just the nick of time to avoid getting another slice carved into my hide. I jumped backwards and landed into a low crouch with my legs tensed.

“Nice.”

“Shame you ran into me, huh?”

“Must not be fun for you.”

He kept rapidly teleporting around me, taunting me from clone to clone. He’d teleport to a new spot, and a previous clone would fly apart into dust, leaving one up at a time, plus his real body. I felt the air shift behind me and quickly rolled forward, and there was a “CLINK!” of the angled tip of his dagger hitting the pavement. I swung my leg out low in a sweep, but it was another clone.

He keeps teleporting before I can get a strike on him, but there’s a pattern to it. He keeps attacking from the rear. He’s decent with those knives, but he’s being cautious, too. Probably knows I can hit him pretty hard. If I can just… bait him out, maybe I can get a decisive blow.

We repeated this cat-and-mouse game half a dozen times, and each time, I made a mental note of how long it was between repositioning and his attack. For my efforts, I got sliced nearly as many times, and my costume was getting wet with blood down the front, back, and sleeves. The gang members in the warehouse seemed to have partially recovered, gathered a few friends, and were making their way over, too. I had to end this, but I couldn’t give up the game that I was onto him.

I had one chance.

I heard a knife clack against my helmet just as I was rolling to the side, and as I was coming back to my feet, I felt a deep, gut-clenching agony light up in my right thigh. I looked down to see a tanto buried to the hilt in my thigh. I shifted my stance a little, and the sensation of my muscles tensing and sliding around the blade made me almost throw up in my helmet.

There was a rasp of another knife being removed from a plastic sheath as Lee approached me from the front. “Seems our little game is over now. I have to say it was fun while it lasted.” I grunted and brought my fists up. My left hand was slick with my blood, but the wraps helped.

“Oh, what’s this? Still up for more? You’re more fun than I thought you’d be!”

My voice was strained, but I got out a taunt without sounding too bad, at least, in my mind: “Bring it, you dollar store ninja.”

Lee barked out a laugh and rushed me head-on. I brought my left fist up for defense and lashed out with a straight punch with my right, straight at his face. Before it could connect, I was already spinning, a high roundhouse with as much force as I could muster behind it. It was sloppy, I was having to balance on my right leg, and I could feel muscles getting cut by the knife and tearing with the force I was exerting. I had to do an educated guess at where he’d be and what sort of stance he’d be in, too.

My foot connected, and it connected hard!

I’d hit him square in the head, and he flew back and to the side, landing in a heap. He wasn’t getting up from that one anytime in the next couple of minutes, I was certain. He was out, stone cold. I brought my leg down with a gasp, and I shifted my weight onto my good leg.

F-fuck, that hurts so bad! I need to get out of here and get a tourniquet on i-

My thought was interrupted by someone clapping their hands behind me. I was turning to look when I felt a pair of bee stings in my lower back. There was a blooming burn in my lower right abdomen. I clapped my hand over it without thinking about it. There was shouting, and I got stung two more times, in my left chest and hip. I fell to my knees, the kneepads on my boots clattering on the pavement and sending a shock through my body that made me want to hurl once again.

I felt lightheaded and dizzy, and toppled over onto my side.

Someone was shouting, practically roaring, in thickly Japanese-accented English: “Fool! Did you think before shooting a Ward!? If she dies, the whole Protectorate comes down on us! I’ll kill you myself if she does! You, you! Pull the truck out, now! Go!”

I rolled onto my back and brought my hand up in front of my helmet. It was covered in deep, dark red blood. I’d been shot a few times. Breathing felt weird, and it hurt. Everything hurt.

I thought back to my training. I couldn’t just lie idle right now. I’d probably die if I did. Time was of the essence. I was in too much pain to move most of my body, so I lay on my back and ripped off my first aid kit from my belt. It was attached with heavy velcro for situations like this, and the zippers were oversized with attached strings for easy gripping.

Unzipping it, my hands were shaking, and it made operating the kit the way I wanted to difficult. There were three big syringes on the inside filled with fast-acting coagulants and wound sealants. I pulled one out and popped the cap off.

This is going to suck.

Feeling for the hole, I clenched my teeth and stuck the body of the syringe into the wound channel as deep as it would go and depressed the plunger down. It felt like someone took a handful of sand and jammed it straight into the wound. I screamed as the plunger went down, forcing the syringe applicator back out of the wound as I depressed it.

O-o-one down. Two to go. I can’t do the one in my chest.

I grabbed the next one and repeated the process with the other gunshot in my abdomen. It was worse than the first time, somehow. I didn’t know if I could manage a third round. I felt the wound on my left hip and–thank fuck–it was a grazing shot and had sliced a track in the skin over my hip, but hadn’t punctured deep tissue. I hacked and tasted blood. I wanted to take my helmet off desperately, but I couldn’t, not with the ABB still clearing out.

I need to roll to my side or try to sit up, so I don’t fill my good lung up and drown.

I didn’t think I could sit upright at the moment, even if my life did depend on it. Side it was. I rolled onto my left side and saw a pair of boots and pants a few feet away. Coughing again, I twisted my head to look at who it was.

Tall, shirtless, powerfully built, covered in colorful tattoos from the waist up, and wearing a steel mask. He had Oni Lee slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

F-fuck. It’s the boss. Lung.

He was looking down at me, and I could see his eyes through the mask. Brown, surrounded by blood, like he had ruptured a vessel in each eye.

His voice was deep, powerful. Commanding and demanding attention when he spoke: “You fought well. Won respectably. Use of sutemi against my lieutenant to defeat him, gambling, or calculated?”

I hacked again and pressed my palm into the hole in my chest just over my left breast as hard as I could. I was wheezing when speaking: “Maybe both. P-pattern to attack, placement a g-gamble-” I tried like hell not to cough again, it was sheer agony throughout my entire torso each time I did.

“Do not die, little bird. Maybe next time, we will fight.” He turned to leave.

I had a thought, and it was so stupid, I had to voice it: “Sister plays you in a video game, beat me with your fire.” Another wheeze interrupted me, and I gasped. “Autograph for her?” He looked back over one shoulder and scoffed with a “Tch!” sound. I thought his eyes didn’t look like they were filled with hate, then he turned back and took off in a jog. Sirens wailed in the background, growing louder. Closer, now. I felt my power rocking and rolling, churning and whipping, pressing against me.

Everything hurts so bad. But today was a good day. I beat a real supervillain. I just need to stay alive long enough to get treatment, and I can call this my first victory.

I considered my power’s insistent prodding.

Fuck it. What’s the worst that can happen?

I stopped fighting it, activated it, and let a wave crash over me. Flashing lights lit up the lot, and the squeal of tires sounded as lightbar and floodlights lit the ground all around me.

Chapter Text

David was first on the scene, and an ambulance wasn’t far behind him. David was able to get the sticky sealant patches on my back where I couldn’t reach them, and on my front to get my chest sealed up. Which was good, because breathing had been getting sorta hard. Other first aid followed, and I was loaded up on a stretcher and carted off to the hospital at breakneck speeds. The paramedics got IVs stuck in me and looked over the work that had been done so far. Seemed about like what they would have done, so they left it alone for doctors at the hospital to take care of. The drugs were good. A comfortable numbness took the edge off most of the pain, and I got a little foggy-headed.

I closed my eyes in the ambulance and felt my power at work. I hadn’t sprouted tentacles or had my hands twist up with hooks and claws, and for that, I was thankful. Maybe my control was improving through use. Things were crawling around inside, moving furiously around the bullet wounds, but between the painkillers making me a bit loopy and numbing the sensations down, I really couldn’t give much of a shit at the moment.

One of the paramedics had been talking to me. My helmet was off for the ride, and I had an oxygen mask on. It was hard to keep track of what he was saying. They’d ask me something, I’d answer, and then it’d be right out of my head.

“I totally kicked Oni Lee’s ass tonight,” I blurted to the paramedic with the sandy hair and aviators on.

“Oh, really? Wow, nice work.”

I nodded my head, which made everything spin a little, and I grinned. My lower abdomen throbbed and burned enough that I felt it through the haze of trauma painkillers, and I felt a pressure building and pressing against the gauze that was over the wound. “I uhm. I have to take this off,” I said, picking at the tape that was holding the covering down.

“No, no, leave that alone, you need to keep that on until we get to the hospital,” Sunglasses said to me.

“No, uhhhh, my power? It’s doing power things, I need to get it off.”

Sunglasses looked over at the other paramedic, an older lady with gray hair pulled tight into a bun. She shrugged at Sunglasses.

“Okay, but be careful not to tear the wound,” Sunglasses said, turning to me. He gave me a hand peeling the tape back and taking the gauze off, then jerked his hand back and pressed against the side of the ambulance like a pit viper was about to strike him.

“FUCK!” He shouted.

I looked down. A long, weird-looking cylindrical plug of bloody something was pressing out of the wound, some blood welling up around it. It squeezed out to a length of about the width of my hand, then fell over and rolled over my side onto the stretcher. Red tendrils that looked like coarse hairs were sticking up a couple of inches out of the bullet hole. They waved around a bit, then seemed to pull back into my body some, laying down over the wound, crossing over one another, and then pulling taut. Skin started to grow over the top, but it was blue? In fact, after the skin grew back, the blue seemed to spread outside the area to cover more of the space than the bullet hole had occupied. It reminded me of a cornflower or something.

“Wooow. I got a flower tattoo!” I said with a dumb grin plastered on my face.

I could feel similar activity elsewhere on the various slashes and bullet wounds.

“Y-yeah, uh, great, good job.” Sunglasses said.

“Can you help me with that other one, over here? Please?” I touched the other hole I’d treated on my lower abdomen. He nodded rapidly and helped me peel the tape back–using forceps this time. The same process as before played out, and soon I had another blue tattoo matching my right side. Well, it was a different shape and size, but close enough.

“Do you normally heal fast?” The lady paramedic asked me.

I nodded a little, then clarified: “Yea. Well. Maybe not this fast, this is so cool, hehe. But a lot faster. I feel a lot better already. Do you think I can go home after we get to the hospital? I have school tomorrow.”

The lady glanced at my vitals monitor and shrugged, holding her hands out to her sides. “I’m just a paramedic. I don’t make decisions like that, or really ever deal with people like you.”

“Aw, man, we’re just people too, you know. You don’t gotta put it that way.” I tried to huff, but it came out as a juicy-sounding wheeze.

“Sure, kid. You just lie back, we’re almost back to the hospital.”

Bitch.

We got to the hospital, and there was a whole team of people waiting for me. They were moving around my bed as they wheeled me through the building at a rapid pace. I couldn’t keep track of everything they were saying to one another. We got into a room, and they transferred me to another bed, lifting the sheets I was on and sliding me over. From there, I was poked, prodded, touched, listened to, flashed with lights, and questioned. They cut my costume off despite my protests and put a gown on me. I was declared sufficiently stable for other doctors to come in and take a deeper look, and with that, they were gone. I rested my head back on the pillow. It was comfy.

I think I might have nodded off at some point because the next thing I knew, my mom had my head buried in her chest, and I heard my dad and my sister talking. My mouth was dry and I felt pretty tired.

“Mm. Hey mom. Dad. Mels.”

Mom let me go, and she wiped at her eyes, letting out a stressed laugh. Melody had my hand in hers, and Dad reached over and squeezed my shoulder. They all looked tired. I was in a hospital room with the blinds closed and the lights turned way down, and it was very quiet.

I smacked my lips and looked around for something to drink. “Is there anything to drink? What time is it?”

Dad answered first. “It’s late. Or no, early. Early Monday morning.” Melody got me one of those annoyingly small hospital cups and poured some ice water into it from a small pitcher by my bed before handing it to me. I promptly gulped it down and asked for another.

“Doctors said you’re doing remarkably well. You’ve been healing very quickly and should be out of here and back home in no time. They want to keep an eye on you for a bit longer until you can get released,” Mom told me, before covering her mouth and yawning.

Her yawning drove me straight into one of my own, and my eyes watered. “Buh. Good, I don’t really want to miss school; it’s a pain to catch up. Or work. I don’t want to miss work.”

A fourth voice spoke up, a woman whom I recognized. I hadn’t noticed her in the room. “Don’t worry about work. They’re going to be going over what you got tonight for the next couple of days, at least.”

“Ha-” I started, my foggy head tripping me up, but I still caught myself. “Miss Militia? What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be staying up for me…”

“I don’t sleep, and I wanted to keep an eye on you to make sure you were doing alright,” she responded. I peered around Melody and saw her leaning against the doorway in her costume, an American flag bandanna covering the lower half of her face. She was toying with a combat knife in her hands, the handle flickering and glowing with a green energy.

Oh, right, she doesn’t sleep at all, she’s a Noctis cape. That’s got to kind of suck, although I guess you get lots more free time.

I looked back at my family. “You all should get back home and get some rest. I’ve got Miss Militia here to keep me company, and besides, I’m still really tired, so I’m probably going to fall back asleep soon.”

Dad and Mom shared a look, and Melody protested a bit. “Let’s head on out now that we know she’s alright, hmm? I can take you into school tomorrow, er, today, so you can sleep in later.” I leaned up and hugged each of them tightly in turn, careful not to dislodge or irritate the IVs jammed in my arm in the process.

“Love you, Mom and Dad. Love you, Melody. See you later? Tomorrow? Whenever. Soon.”

They smiled, waved, filed their way out, and headed home. I scrubbed at my eyes and drank my second tiny cup of water. Miss Militia pushed off the wall and stuffed her knife, which had become a pistol at some point, into a holster at her hip and took a seat in the chair next to the head of my bed.

“How are you feeling?” She asked me.

I stopped to consider for a moment. “I feel pretty good? Sore, but like after a really hard workout, or a marathon, or something. And uhm.” I looked up at the ceiling tiles and took stock of my thoughts of the evening. I went to talk, then looked around to see if there were any obvious recording devices.

“You can talk here without worrying about it. This is one of the rooms reserved for the Protectorate and PRT.”

I nodded. “I feel good about tonight, too, I think. We got the evidence that we were after, right? I feel sorta bad for getting put in the hospital, but I think I did alright?”

She tapped one thumb over the other, her hands together on her lap. “We did. Armsmaster is going over it back at HQ. He's trying to document everything and make the best case we can for Washington. He wanted to come over here, but figured the time would be better spent digging through the data so it’d be ready in the morning.”

That made sense. I had sorta mixed feelings about Armsmaster. He was a bit brisk and maintained distance more than some of the other members of the Protectorate in the bay, but I didn’t think he was a bad guy, just sort of… frosty. It wasn’t a secret that he was very career-motivated and looking to press any advantages he could get internally. I respected his dedication to his career, but I hoped that if I ever wound up in his position, I would be a bit closer with my team and those under me.

Miss Militia interrupted my thoughts: “As for being put in the hospital, don’t sweat it. It happens, it’s part of the job. Considering you were heavily outnumbered and operating solo, you did quite well in my estimation. We also had a gift left for us at the warehouse. Who we think shot you, and the gun. Both his legs were broken.”

I blinked my eyes. “Why?”

Hannah shifted in the seat and shrugged slightly before saying, “Hard to say. Possibly, it was Lung making a demonstration to keep his other crew in line. It could have been an apology of sorts, or an attempt to buy off the heat for gunning down a Ward. Some mix of everything. He’s hard to read, and often fairly unpredictable.”

Her tone was pretty neutral, and I wasn’t entirely sure that I liked that. Like she’d said about Lung, though, she, too, was often hard to get a read on. Played her cards close to her chest, as Officer Collins would say.

“...Am I in trouble?” I asked, trepidation creeping into my voice.

Hannah took a deep breath and sighed quietly, then made eye contact with me and tugged her bandana down to expose her face. “In my book, I think you did everything you could have at the moment, given the situation. I also think that our operations team failed to keep track of Lung and Lee’s movements. If they were there, you should have known in advance. There’s always a risk doing what we do, but I don’t think you made any bad calls.”

She gave me an intense look, holding eye contact with me: “Morgan, you did a good job. And you do good work elsewhere. But you know as well as I do that we only lend our voices and opinions to the PRT, and the civilian side makes the decisions. Do I think they will punish you? Unlikely. I know Director Piggot pretty well, and I would say we’re often of a similar mindset on things. The big thing they care about with the Wards is following orders, learning the chain of command and procedures, and not putting the public at risk or causing a ton of property damage.”

I felt like a little weight had come off my chest, and my own doubts over my performance were alleviated for the time being.

“I hate trying to fight Movers,” I admitted.

She chuckled and agreed: “Yeah. They can be annoying and hard to deal with. That’s why I use grenade launchers against them.”

We chatted for about another thirty minutes, some storytelling on her part, and a little bit of just casual stuff in general. My eyelids started getting heavy, and I told Hannah I was going to rest my eyes for a few minutes. I was out as soon as my eyes closed.

I woke up later, the blinds were open, and it looked like a pretty early morning. The room was empty, but there was a bag left sitting on the seat of the chair next to my bed. I felt fairly well rested. I needed to use the restroom, so I used the call button, waited a few minutes for a nurse to come and help me to the bathroom with my IV stand, and relieved myself. When I was done and had finished washing my hands, I pulled up my gown to look in the mirror. I was clean, having been washed at some point during the night, with the exception of my hair. On my lower abdomen, left hip, and over my left breast were vivid blue patches of skin that looked like a mix of a weirdly-colored birthmark and a tattoo, with some winding and branching tree roots surrounding them.

Tucking the gown under my chin, I got closer to the mirror and hesitantly touched the skin where the serious injuries had been. I drew my finger back after touching it. There was a disconnect in my brain where my skin felt my finger like normal, but my finger felt something that didn’t feel like my skin. I ran the pad of my finger over the spot on my lower left abdomen. It was oddly textured: a little bumpy and incredibly slick. I pressed a little, and it deformed like skin; it was soft, but I noticed that it didn’t seem as elastic. Finding the edge, I tried to pick at it with my fingernail to see if it was a coating or something. It was weird, my nail slid over my normal skin as I’d expected, and I didn’t feel any seam or edge, just the transition where it suddenly seemed like there was very little friction. I didn’t know what to make of it.

I lifted the back of my gown and turned around to look over my shoulder. I had similar markings on my back in the same places. One on my upper left back, one on my lower left back, and one on my lower right back. There was a long, narrow strip of it on my left hip where I’d been grazed, too, with little branches extending upwards and roots extending downwards from the thick horizontal line. I had some similar spots where I’d been slashed on my upper arms and shoulder, and on my right thigh, where the knife had stabbed straight through me.

A thought occurred to me, and I dropped my gown and turned back around, then slowly spun in front of the mirror. The gown basically covered all of the spots. There were a few fine lines that stuck out under the baggy sleeve of the gown, but that was it. I thought back to last night. There was a good chance that my family hadn’t seen any of it, or might have thought it was a surgical cleaner or something. I’d try to keep it that way. There was a knock on the bathroom door, and I started with a jerk.

“Miss Rivera? Your doctor is here to see you.” A soft-spoken male's voice called through the door.

“Oh, uh, thanks, be out in just a minute!” I grabbed my IV stand and stepped out of the bathroom. A nurse in scrubs saw me, smiled, then said something to the doctor and left, closing the door behind himself. My doctor was a middle-aged Hispanic man with dark brown eyes and short, dark, curly hair. He was wearing a lab coat and a lanyard with a stack of badges over some scrubs.

“So, you gave radiology quite the headache imaging you last evening, young lady!” He said with a smile, and pumped some sanitizer from a dispenser on the wall into his hands and scrubbed them.

“I um. I did?” I asked, slightly confused.

“Sure did! X-ray and CT scans had artifacts and shadows absolutely everywhere around your puncture wounds. We had to crank them to get any sort of image we could meaningfully use for diagnostic purposes.” He waved his hands back and forth at his sides to dry them, and the smell of alcohol and perfume became potent in the room.

I thought about asking if that was a bad thing, but he interrupted me before I could put the thought together enough to voice it. “Are you comfortable with me examining you with my hands? I’ll have gloves on, but you’ll be exposed, so I can look at the front and back sides of your torso. If not, I can go get a female doctor for you, no problem at all, it just might take a few extra minutes.”

I really didn’t like being in hospitals. Too many bad memories of the last time I was in one of these beds. I didn’t want to be here longer than I had to. And I trusted him to be professional like my doctor. Blushing just a little, I nodded my head and told him, “It’s fine, you can do it, I have other male doctors.”

He pulled on a pair of gloves, grabbed a penlight from his pocket, and gestured at the bed. “First up, I’d like you to have a seat, and lift the front of your gown up to the middle of your rib cage for me. Tell me if anything is uncomfortable, either moving into position or when touched, okay?”

I took a seat as asked, rearranging the IVs so they weren’t in the way, and did as he asked. My thighs were pressed together, as I was nude under the gown. I felt my cheeks warming. The doctor told me, “Tell me if you have any pain or are uncomfortable.”

I nodded. He touched my right thigh, but it was a firm, steady grip as he poked and prodded where the knife had penetrated. He felt around the edges of the area and asked, “Any pain?”

I shook my head. He touched directly over the spot and prodded a bit, watching my face and reaction. I shook my head once more. He pressed deeper then, into the underlying muscles. It was sore, but not painful. I told him as such. He smiled and said, “That’s fantastic! And no difficulty walking?”

“No, just sorta sore, but I can move fine.”

We repeated the process for the spots on my abdomen, and when we got to the one on my upper chest, he had me lie back and untied the gown, but only lowered it enough that the upper slope of my boob was visible. I felt fairly comfortable with things. When that was done, I rolled on my side, and he checked over all my back spots.

Taking up a clipboard attached to my bed, he started to scribble notes and leaf through sheets of paper, marking things down while speaking: “Well, Ms. Rivera, I am happy to say that we’re going to clear you for release. Your vitals are great, no symptoms of any infections, and imaging, despite being a mess, doesn’t show any bullets or fragments. I would say you’re very lucky, but really, I think your status as a parahuman is largely responsible, not luck. A nurse will be by shortly to get your lines taken out. Any questions before I go?”

Only about a million, but one stands out above the rest.

Clearing my throat, I asked: “What about my skin?”

He looked up from his clipboard and asked: “What about it?”

I am so confused right now.

“Well, it wasn’t slippery, bumpy, or blue over those areas before I was hurt yesterday.”

He blinked a few times, then clicked his pen and stuck it back into the breast pocket of his lab coat. “Well, I had assumed that was normal for you. Many parahumans have anatomical differences in some form or fashion. From what I can tell, it appears to be healthy tissue. No pain, soreness, or signs of inflammation in surrounding tissue. I would suggest taking any questions you have to your medical professionals in the PRT. They are far more educated on parahuman matters than I am, and I wouldn’t want to give you bad information.”

I digested that a moment.

“Things to be on the lookout for: Feeling sick like you have a cold or flu, or excessive fatigue. Hot or cold chills, pain, or bleeding in wound areas. Any other questions?”

I shook my head. I wanted to get out of here. HQ might have more answers for me.

“Stock up on sleep, get some food, and take it easy for a few days. Good luck, Ms. Rivera!” With a wave, he walked out, leaving me alone in the room. True to his word, a few minutes later, a nurse came by and pulled the tubes out of my arm and taped some swabs tightly over the spots. I dug around in the plastic bag on the chair, finding a change of clothing, my wallet, ID, PRT phone, and personal cellphone. I went ahead and got dressed. It was just some underwear from home, a pair of jeans, sneakers, a band tee, and a hoodie. I had the feeling Melody had picked it out. Checking the phones revealed they’d been charged at some point, and both battery cells were almost full.

I texted my family and told them I was leaving the hospital with a clean bill of health and was heading over to PRT HQ to handle some paperwork and to talk with some people, and that I’d be home after. My mom made me promise to not do ‘crime stuff,’ and I assured her I was only doing follow-up work. I didn’t mention I was going to get checked out by the medical staff there. None of my cape stuff was in the bag at all, just my ‘civilian’ PRT ID. I assumed that Miss Militia had probably collected everything from the ER last night.

Leaving the hospital, I called a cab and got a ride to a drop-off a block away from where the parking lots for the Protectorate headquarters out in the bay were located. There were plenty of shops and eateries in the area. A short cab ride later, and entirely way too much money for the time it took, and I was checking in at the gated facility on this side of the bridge that connected the city to the former oil rig. The security here was incredibly tight, but they knew me. I still had to scan my cover ID, get a retinal scan, and speak my name into a voice analyzer to get the green light. There was an ever-present risk of people with Stranger classification powers–those that modified or inhibited perception–trying to sneak into our facilities. One of the guards at the gatehouse gave me a ride across the bridge on an electric golf cart, which was nice. The bridge was made of a solid hologram, which was both cool and freaky, as it was partially transparent.

I texted Miss Militia and Armsmaster with my PRT phone that I was onsite and visiting the medical facilities, but would be available for debriefing after if desired. The inside of the rig was practically a labyrinth to navigate, and in the way things were arranged. Color-coded bars ran down the top and bottom of each hallway and doorframe in departments, and color-coded lines on the floor tiles guided you from department to department. The place was designed to be a secure facility and fortress against villain attacks, and not for ease of navigation.

I was here to visit Dr. Calloway. He was my ‘parahuman’ medical doctor with the PRT. I sort of suspected he might be a parahuman himself, but I’d never wanted to actually ask him. He was young for a doctor, though. Either that or he was just one of those people who looked ten years younger than he was. I just hoped he was actually here today. I didn’t have an appointment or anything. I checked in with the receptionist at the small medical ‘wing’ and asked if he was in. I explained I didn’t have an appointment, but I’d been in a big scuffle yesterday and wanted a professional opinion after getting out of traditional medical services.

Ten minutes later, Calloway came out to greet me. He was tall and lean without looking skinny and fit. He was quite handsome, with sandy blonde hair stylishly cut and combed over to one side with some product in it. He had bright green eyes that stood out with his hair.

“Morgan!” He called out to me, smiling widely. “Come with! We’ll get you right in!”

I walked back with him through the clinic. It was about what you’d expect, except more accessible with wide halls, tall doors, and ceilings, and lots of wickedly high-tech looking equipment. He brought me into an exam room, and I hopped up onto the table.

“So, what’s going on? Not like you to swing by unannounced.”

I gave him the short rundown of events last night: the gunshot, slice and stab wounds, using my power to try and heal myself, bouncing back in record time, and my new additions. He listened intently, twisting and tilting his head, and taking notes on a computer at an insane typing pace I was mildly envious of.

“Well! I think your ER doctor has the long and short of it, but we’ll take a deeper look with some of our tools, huh? Mind taking your hoodie and shirt off for me so I can get a look and poke around a bit?" I was already expecting this request, and I had a bra on, so it wasn’t a huge deal. Besides, I knew Dr. Calloway. He’d done a lot of my testing after I’d triggered, which was extensive.

I lay back on the padded table, and he pulled a surgical light on an articulated arm away from the wall, turned it on, and aimed it at my abdomen, then got some gloves, tools, and what I could only describe as mad scientist goggles. He gave me a goofy grin, held up a tongue depressor, and did his best mad tinker villain cackle. It was dumb, but it got me. I laughed and rolled my eyes. He rolled over on a stool and leaned in, and his goggles whirred and clicked, rotating through a bevy of lenses.

He started off exactly as my other doctor had, touching, asking for feedback on sensations, and checking for pain. Things got a little weird from there. He poked at my bumpy skin with some sharp things, tapped tools against it, listening to the sound my skin made, and at one point asking me if he could try taking a sample. I felt a little nervous because it involved a scalpel, but he assured me that it wouldn’t be painful. I took a deep breath and exhaled, then nodded.

He stretched the skin flat with his thumb and forefinger and attempted to cut at an extremely shallow angle, nearly parallel. I felt it sliding around on my skin, but it didn’t feel sharp or hurt at all. He grinned, looking quite mad with his goggles, and went: “Aha! Want to see something really cool?”

Just a bit nervously, I replied: “Is it going to hurt? And um, sure.”

“Nope, sit up on your elbows so you can see.”

I did.

“Hold still for me, and watch this!”

He slid his grip down the scalpel much farther back than it should be, then flicked his wrist and whacked the blade in the center of one of the big hand-sized spots. I jerked a little. The blade went “Cling!” and didn’t leave a mark, and Calloway pulled the blade up to peer at it with his goggles.

“Hah! Chipped the blade, how cool is that?” Rolling back, he unfastened the blade from the handle of the scalpel and tossed it into a sharps bin, then pushed his goggles up on his forehead. He had red rings around his eyes where they’d been strapped tightly to his face.

“So uhh…what is it?” I asked.

Grinning at me, he said: “Hell if I know! But I know someone who might. Mind if we get a second opinion in here to take a look?”

“Uhm. Sure.” I didn’t want to feel like a lab rat, but I suppose that having someone else who might be an expert in a different field might help. And I did want some answers.

“Toss your hoodie on for a moment, I gotta go make a phone call and get some equipment. Be right back, okay?” I nodded and pulled on the soft sweatshirt. A few minutes passed, then there was a knock at the door and Calloway’s voice, saying, “Coming in!”

He came back in, and some sort of medical robot rolled in behind him. It honestly looked stupid, like a mix of a photocopier, one of those rolling vitals monitors from a hospital, and a set of pretty advanced-looking robotic arms all blended in one bulky, boxy package. I was reminded of what portrayals of old robots in movies looked like. At least it didn’t have random flashing and blinking lights or floppy tube arms. And it rolled around on a set of wheels instead of waddling.

“Phoenix Strike, would you like to say hello to Dragon?” Calloway asked me with a very mischievous, almost boyish grin plastered on his face.

I don’t often get starstruck or stage fright. I worked my mouth and frowned. I got out an extremely eloquent “Hi,” on my third try.

Dragon was one of the best tinkers in the world, and while she wasn’t a member of the Protectorate, as she was Canadian, she did work extremely closely with the Protectorate and PRT. I think she was technically considered a consultant. She was the mastermind behind The Dragonflight, a set of flying robots that responded to A-Class and S-Class threats around the world. She was also notoriously reclusive, having never been seen in person, and using a digital avatar and telepresence to communicate with people. It was widely speculated that she had a severe deformity or was disabled. Either that or she was just really, extremely serious about her privacy and identity. Which was true for most of us, especially the higher-ups, like her.

A flatscreen display switched over from a diagnostic readout to a 3D animated woman’s face. She smiled and said, “Hello, Doctor Calloway gave me a call and told me he had a lovely young woman with some really neat skin visiting, and asked if I might take a look and lend my opinion!” She had a strange accent that was hard to place. It sounded vaguely Irish, but clearly wasn't. Maybe she had immigrated in the past?

I felt really self-conscious all of a sudden at the attention. “I’m just a nobody Ward, don’t… Aren’t you like, busy saving the world for someone, or fighting a supervillain?”

She glanced down and moved her head back and forth, and I could hear pages of a notebook flipping. “Hmm. Seems like I’ve got Saving the World penned down for 2 PM in my schedule.” She looked back up at me with a grin.

I let out a little groan.

“Besides, you know there’s a lot we do that isn’t running from fight to fight. I like helping people when and where I can! Doctor Calloway provided his notes, and I have copies of your medical file. Do you want to get started with some questions, and then we can try a few tests?”

“Yeah, sure. That’s fine with me.” Calloway's phone vibrated, and he pulled it out and looked at it.

“You two good if I step out for a bit? I have something else I need to attend to,” he asked.

“I don’t mind,” I said, and Dragon replied, “We’re all good here!” He stuffed his phone back in his lab coat pocket and stepped out, closing the door behind himself.

“So your PRT records have you down as having a Changer-type power and a Brute rating. Does that sound right to you?”

I played with my fingertips and nodded. My anxiety around talking about my power, or really dealing with it, tightened my chest a little, but not too badly.

“And that you don’t often like to use your Changer power, and more prefer to use your Brute power?”

I nodded without saying anything and fidgeted with my fingertips.

“Is it always on? Are you using it right now?”

“I don’t know if it’s like an on or off thing, but it’s calm right now, so I’d say it’s off. I’m not using it at all.”

“I see,” Dragon said before continuing with a follow-up: “And you didn’t try to change your skin when you were last using it… last night? And you’ve never had this happen before?”

I shook my head. “No to both. I’ve had other weird things. Like growing tentacles or teeth, claws. Um. Eyes where they shouldn’t be.” My breath caught in my throat, and I covered my mouth.

Deep breath in. Hold. Let it out slowly. Calm. I can talk about this.

“I’m very sorry if I upset you. Can I call you Morgan?” Dragon’s tone was soft.

I cleared my throat and swallowed the knot that had formed there. “Yeah. And you didn’t upset me. I get into my head thinking about it sometimes, but that wasn’t your fault. I’ve been- it’s been getting easier lately. I’ve been using it more, easing into it, trying to get better control.” I glanced up at the display, and Dragon smiled warmly. Well, as warmly as a 3D render can. It was really good, though. I thought she must use face-tracking software; it was in real-time, and not just going from one static expression to another.

“Morgan, can I ask you something personal? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to; this isn’t related to your exam.” I dropped my eyes back to my lap, then bobbed my head.

“Talking about things can really help. I know you are seeing someone, but do you have anyone on your team, or any friends you can talk to about it?”

“No- I… I’m really self-conscious when it comes to talking about that part of my power with my team. I don’t want them to think less of me. And I don’t have a ton of friends who aren’t parahumans that I’d feel comfortable talking to about that. It’s… maybe you know, but it’s hard to talk to people about parahuman stuff who don’t know what it’s like themselves.”

“Would you like me to contact you so you have my information? We can talk about it, or anything else. I have good availability, but might be delayed responding if things are busy. But I will contact you back.” My vision got blurry, and I wiped at my eyes.

“I don’t want to be a bother-” Dragon cleared her throat and interrupted me, saying: “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to, and it’s not a bother, not at all. We’re in this strange world of heroes and villains together, and I know very well what it can be like to need to have someone who you can simply talk to without worrying about team or power dynamics.”

I considered. Maybe she does, at that. Especially if she’s disabled or can’t really get around on her own.

“Okay. I’d like that, I think.” I’d no more than finished saying it, and both my phones vibrated in my jeans pockets.

“Want to get back to testing now?” I looked up to see an amused expression and nodded firmly. The arms of the bot came up, and some trays slid out on the front of the chest below the display. Tools and implements of all manner stood in special holding racks, and the fingers on the hands of the bots plugged into the tools, loading up half a dozen different bits and bobs. I pulled my hoodie off and sat on the table next to me, and Dragon instructed me: “Lie back with your arms or hands under your head and try to relax for me. I’ll tell you what I’m doing before each test, so you know fully what to expect. You can watch, if you’d like!”

I propped my head up on my arms to be able to get a look at what she was doing.

“These tools might look scary, but I’m not going to hurt you, promise.”

“Okay.”

“First up is some tapping!” She exclaimed in a cheerful voice.

“That’s… really easy?” I asked, slightly confused.

“Yep!”

A finger with a selection of rounded tips of varying materials on a wheel centered precisely over one of my spots, and then came down with a rapid poke. Poke, click, poke, click. She cycled through tips and poked my lower belly in rapid sequence.

“You have very nice muscle tone and definition. You must work out quite often!”

I chuckled a little and agreed: “I do, yeah. Usually five days a week.”

This continued for a good ten minutes, as I was poked, prodded, and pinched on three spots on my front and three spots on my back. There were a few scary moments, like when she poked me with a few different types of needles super slowly, a camera on an arm watching from just a few inches away. Another with a scalpel with a handful of blades, like Calloway had done, but more thorough. Finally, she asked me to close my eyes and cover them with my hands, and there were a few snaps as she photographed me with something.

“All done! You can go ahead and put your shirt and sweater on! That wasn’t so bad, right?”

It really hadn’t been. Downright pedestrian compared to the kind of testing I went through when I first triggered. That involved getting really poked and prodded, as they treated me like a pincushion while taking what felt like a thousand blood samples.

“No, that was easy. Thanks, Dragon. What uh, do you know what’s going on? Why is my skin like that?”

She looked at me while operating the bot, storing the tooltips, disposing of blades and needles, and sanitizing everything while she talked. “So! I have some answers for you, and I hope they’re helpful or reassuring for you, at least. That blue skin of yours is both blue and skin. Sort of.”

I frowned at her and went to say something, but she grinned and chuckled at me. “Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood! So, for context, Doctor Calloway called me in as a subject matter expert for materials science. He wasn’t entirely sure if your patches were organic.”

I tilted my head, more than a little confused, and she continued: “They are! Structurally, they function as skin, but they share more similarities with certain marine life and reptiles than human tissue.”

“Aren’t those like…” I thought back to AP biology class. “Wait, but aren’t those totally different groups? Class? Phylum, Order?”

“Good! Put simply, yes. There are some very interesting things going on with your skin based on the tests I’m able to do here and now, and I’m not sure there is an exact one-to-one match with any known species. But let’s talk practicalities if you’d like.”

“Okay…” I wasn’t sure where this was going.

“These patches of skin: You can think of them like an extremely advanced type of dermal armor. Way beyond anything we can make outside specialized tinkertech. You might have noticed it feels a bit strange, very different than the rest of your skin?”

“I, yes. It’s a very slick feeling, and it sounds like it’s hard, but feels soft to the touch.”

“Right on all counts! It is extremely low-friction, and the surface layer is truly hard, in fact, you’d struggle to find anything to cut it. Based on what I can gather, the subsurface layers have an organic mesh providing tensile strength, which is why it’s not as stretchy. That, combined with the surface hardness, would make it quite resistant to piercing and cutting, provided whatever it was didn’t slide off and penetrate your human skin tissue.”

I took several long moments to digest that, reaching under my shirt and feeling over the spots on my belly. It didn’t feel terrible, and the thought of having body armor skin was a little exciting, but I didn’t want to look like I’d spilled craft paint all over myself. It would out me as a parahuman if I didn't act cautiously, and I didn’t want that. There were also the strange pattern shapes.

“Do you know why it’s shaped the way it is? Like roots and branches, or thorny vines?” I paused a moment, then voiced a worry that crept into my head as I was saying that: “It’s not human?”

“Now this is just my best guess, so take it with a grain of salt, please. I can tell you definitively that it is not human tissue; it bears almost no semblance or structure to it. I would hypothesize that the patterning is due to the nature of the way the tissue grew and formed. It’s also advantageous to have fractal patterns like that in terms of the strength of the bond where it connects to your human tissue.”

I swallowed. My skin wasn’t just covered, it was replaced. The thought sat heavy in my gut like a brick suddenly settling in place. “It’s not human, does that mean…” I hesitated, almost fearing the answer that might come. “Is it going to grow, to spread?”

Dragon pursed her lips, observing me with a slightly concerned look on her face. “That's a possibility, Morgan. I can understand your concern, but try to take a step back and think about other heroes out there, even some of the ones on your team. Changers who can shift their anatomy and biology like yourself. Breakers who can enter states where they’re not even solid matter, let alone human, like turning into living flame, or a gaseous cloud like Shadow Stalker. This would have been scary for them as well, and maybe still is. Try to think of this as you starting to use aspects of your power you haven’t used before, so you’re discovering new things about yourself, and your abilities.”

She was right, and I sighed and attempted to calm my nerves. Jessica had said very similar things in the past. It was a good, valid point.

“Would it help to hear that the more coverage you had, the more protected you’ll be? If it spreads, you’d be virtually bulletproof.”

“What, really?!”

“Yes, really. This is honestly very fascinating stuff. It behaves like an advanced metamaterial, harder than steel, but flexible. It might have other qualities you haven’t discovered yet as well. A more detailed study of your skin could potentially lead to some major breakthroughs in personal protection technologies.” She paused a moment before adding, “One last thing before I have to disconnect, Morgan.”

She’s got such positive energy. I wish I could replicate more of that myself.

“Yeah?” I asked her, my mind rolling through all the information I’d learned in the past fifteen minutes. The potential upsides and downsides, and the broader implications.

Being bulletproof and cutproof like Alexandria would be amazing. I don’t know if I want to be blue. I wonder if foundation or concealer would stick to it? It seems like it might not. I need to look up what a metamaterial is.

“Just a gentle reminder, something to think about and experiment with. While you’re most used to using the Brute classification portions of your abilities, you are also a Changer. It’s possible you could learn to spread that, or maybe retract it at will. Take your time, be careful, and see what your power can do. Approach it like an experiment, and you might surprise yourself with what you discover.”

I smiled at her, and really meant it. It was a good thought. “Thank you, Dragon. I’ll try and contact you later, maybe, with what I find out.”

“Good luck, and I hope to hear from you soon,” she said, before her face disappeared from the screen, and the informational readouts of the machine returned. The robot resumed what I assumed was its default or resting pose and rolled to the door, which unlatched and whirred open, then out into the hallway before disappearing. The door stayed open, and I saw Dr. Calloway writing on a standing desk outside.

I got up and walked out, and we chatted some. I told him a little about what we’d discussed, but didn’t go into any detail. He told me that he would get a report on it all later to review and update my records. He didn’t have anything else for me, and I felt like I had most of my questions answered, so I shook his hand and headed out. I’d gotten to the elevators and was about to try and track down Miss Militia and Armsmaster, when the overhead chimed and a synthesized voice announced: “M. Rivera, please report to the administrative offices lobby.”

Guess that’s my call.

Chapter Text

It always struck me what a stark difference there was between this facility and PRT HQ in the city. The PRT tower downtown was more of an office building; it was secure but still businesslike and approachable. People wore suits, not uniforms, and the air buzzed with meetings and conversations. The rig, by contrast, was unmistakably a military-style installation. Security was even tighter; officers in full combat gear patrolled the halls, and the atmosphere was strictly professional, with little to no idle chatter. No informal gatherings in the halls or offices. Even the elevators were different. Stark and utilitarian, more like a cargo lift than something to transport people. The elevator chimed upon reaching my floor, and I stepped out.

The administrative floor was more like what I most often worked with in the tower, but there was still a difference in the atmosphere. It was quieter, more deliberate. I walked up to the reception and introduced myself. They were expecting me and led me into a conference room. I noted that the door had indicator lights by the handle, and there was a slight delay between when the receptionist turned the handle and opened the door. A locking mechanism clicked in the door, and then it opened. I stepped in, and it closed behind me, latched, and beeped.

I had assumed this was just a standard debrief, a rundown of Sunday’s events and the information we’d gathered. But the moment I saw who was in the room, that assumption wavered. Armsmaster and Miss Militia were present, as was Officer Collins. No surprises there. What I didn’t expect was Director Piggot herself and two people in sharp suits that wouldn’t look out of place in a boardroom.

Director Piggot was the boss. The big boss, the head of the entire PRT division here in Brocton Bay. And while it wasn’t unusual to see her in meetings, she didn’t waste her time on minor things. Most of the Wards found her intimidating and cracked jokes about her appearance in private. They called her “Piggy” because she was quite obese, although none of them would ever dare say that in her presence. I thought the name was childish. I’d never personally had a bad interaction with her, and in my dealings, she was always all business and no-nonsense, like Officer Collins. I respected that.

She only shows up for big stuff or if something really went sideways. Why is she here now? I suppose the results of our investigation and proof of arms trafficking in Brockton Bay would be a big deal.

She spoke up and indicated a seat next to Officer Collins at the table: “Please have a seat, and we’ll get started.” I glanced around the faces in the room as I was moving and getting seated. It was a bit strange, I felt like there was a tension in the air I couldn’t quite account for. I thought back to my conversation with Hannah early this morning. Was I about to get chewed out?

Armsmaster spoke next: “We’ve gone over the evidence you gathered and the footage of your interactions with the ABB.” He turned in his seat to look at me, his visor obscuring his upper face and making it hard to get a read on his expression. “Good work overall, but I have a few questions for you.” I nodded and cleared a few strands of loose hair from in front of my face.

“Why did you feel it was appropriate to fight with Oni Lee?” His tone was level, but I felt the weight of the question. “He is a known terrorist and serial killer. We have him classified as a Do Not Engage for good reason. You’re competent, Morgan, and I am going to assume you knew this in advance.”

Oh hell. I cleared my throat. “I tried to disengage and get away, but with his teleportation ability and mover rating, I didn’t think I could outrun him. I attempted to stun him to buy time, but that failed. I didn’t have a good means of breaking the line of sight in a wide area fast enough to matter. I- I made the decision to try and injure him or knock him out so I could get away from the rest of the ABB. I just want to say, also-”

He raised a hand, palm out, cutting me off. “One question and answer at a time. I am guessing what you were going to say. Did you have any indication that Lung was present?”

“No. Not Lung, and not Lee, before he surprised me.”

“That answers my questions.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, posture still stiff. “We’re not always in control of the situation. Things happen that we have to take in stride and react accordingly.” There was a momentary pause. “You did well, considering your limited capabilities.”

I flinched like I’d been struck.

Limited capabilities.

It was factually correct, but it didn’t lessen the sting of hearing it.

Miss Militia glanced over at me when I twitched, her expression unreadable.

Director Piggot leaned forward in her chair, placing her hands on the table and loosely interlacing her fingers. “Now that is wrapped up, there was another reason I called you here.” Her tone was dispassionate, and her gaze as stony as it ever was. I pressed my hands together in my lap and waited for her to continue.

“As you know, you turned eighteen in February and will be graduating from the Wards program as a result. Normally, employment contracts run until either the annual renewal date or until the end of the current school year, whichever comes first. Your contract renewal date is March twenty-fourth, this Thursday.”

Is it? I suppose so. I’ve lost track of time; it didn’t feel like it had been that long.

I sat up straighter and nodded. Graduation. It’d been on the back of my mind for weeks, but with the eventful weekend, I hadn’t given it much thought. I didn’t know the bit about the scheduling flexibility, but it made perfect sense. The Wards program was really good about working with us and our education.

Suit one was the woman to the left of Director Piggot, with trendy dark-framed glasses and a rather distinctive nose and sharp eyebrows. She flipped open a thick folder and pulled out a stack of papers. They were that weird shape that formal contracts had, like a normal sheet of paper, but overly long. I assumed it was mine.

Suit one spoke: “You’ll have some signatures required here, afterward.” She indicated the contract with one manicured fingernail.

“Your time with the Wards will be ending shortly,” Director Piggot said, then extended an open hand in Armsmaster’s Direction. “That brings us to the Protectorate.”

My stomach twisted into knots, and I rotated my office chair slightly to face Armsmaster more directly.

This is it. The culmination of everything I’ve been working for.

He took the handoff from Piggot and continued the discussion. “We have been keeping a close watch over your growth and development as a Ward. You’ve come quite far since your first day. It is very commendable, and I wish that more members of the Wards program had the drive that you have, Ms. Rivera. You have been the subject of significant internal debate, and we have reached a decision, which we’ve passed on to the Director.” He nodded towards Director Piggot.

My heart swelled in my chest with the words: I was getting recognition for all the effort I’d put in, and the ceaseless training and learning I’d ground away at over the past year. I felt my cheeks flush, and I squeezed my thumb between the forefinger and thumb of my other hand in my lap as I fought to maintain my composure.

“In light of your capabilities and numerous teammates who are also graduating this year, we have made the recommendation to the PRT that you not be extended an employment contract as a member of the Protectorate.” His tone was flat, like he was reading a nutritional information label.

That, no. There has to be a misunderstanding. I’ve done everything right, I’ve worked so hard, I’ve improved, and learned. I’m a core member of the team. I’ve earned this.

“I don’t understand. My scores and evaluations are solid. My worst area is average, and my best areas were very good.” I stressed my words, trying to emphasize my case. “What disqual- Is this because of this weekend?”

My eyes darted between Armsmaster and Director Piggot. They weren’t reacting to what I was saying at all.

This- This. This isn’t a discussion. This was already decided before I entered the room.

“Is there an appeal process? Trial program?” My voice was steadier than I might have expected. “Probationary period? Anything?” My eyes kept going back and forth between the two local heads of their organizations. Miss Militia shifted in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. I couldn’t see her lower face with her costume, but her body language seemed uncomfortable. Maybe she had taken my side and argued for me in their significant internal debate.

But she isn’t the leader of the Brocton Bay Protectorate. Armsmaster is. If she argued for me, he would have overruled her.

I fixed my gaze on Armsmaster, and Armsmaster alone, my eyes drilling holes into his reflective visor. I did everything I could to keep my voice level. Even as a bit of a hothead, it wasn’t terribly difficult. I could feel a chill, a coldness creeping across my skin and up my spine.

I swallowed, my voice even. “Why, Armsmaster? I deserve a reason. I want to know the truth behind this decision.”

His response was curt, frank: “Your PRT classification ratings are low for Protectorate entry. Given the threats in Brockton Bay, I can’t justify allocating a position to you over stronger candidates.”

The truth hurts, but it’s also liberating. There it is. I’m weaker than Aegis and Gallant, who are also graduating this year. There was a tiny, irrational part of me waiting for a contradiction, for Miss Militia to step in, for someone to say he was wrong. The silence was deafening.

The cold I was feeling entered my voice, and I gave him a dry response: “Thank you for your honesty.”

“If I may?” Director Piggot speaking this time. I turned to her. “Your performance as a Ward has been commendable, and I want to emphasize that this decision is not a reflection of misconduct or failure on your part. If you wish to join the Protectorate, we can facilitate placement in a different region, where your skills would be a better fit. There is no deadline. If you choose to pursue this option, you will be a new applicant and can apply at any time.”

Deep breath in. Slow exhale.

Relocation.

There was no sympathy in Director Piggot’s voice, but there wasn’t an ounce of malice to be found in it, either. She was probably used to making decisions like this in her role. Who was I? Just a young adult parahuman, a piece on a chessboard. Given Armsmaster’s brutal honesty, a pawn, no doubt.

“What about my trust?” I asked the room generally. As a Ward, we were paid a pretty awesome salary of 50,000 dollars a year, and all but a small portion of that was placed in a trust for after graduation. I wasn’t sure if that meant high school graduation or Wards graduation.

Suit two, a man with slicked-back jet-black hair, brown eyes, and a questionable mustache, answered my question without looking up from his paperwork: “Your accumulated earnings will be electronically transferred to your primary banking account by close of business Thursday. All applicable deductions have been processed. You’ll receive an itemized breakdown of all taxes and fees with your exit paperwork.”

“Let’s go ahead and get that completed then,” I said, feeling a bit detached from things. The cold was numbing, almost comforting in a way. I had a lot to think about right now, and I didn’t want to be here any longer than I needed to be.

It didn’t take long. Suit one and suit two had the paperwork already fully prepared and waiting for my signatures. When it was all said and done, we collectively stood up, and there were handshakes. Miss Militia pulled me into a firm hug. Officer Collins looked displeased, maybe a touch sad. Piggot and Armsmaster were firm and businesslike. I was a good sportsman. I wasn’t going to be petty and refuse to shake their hands. We’d worked together for a year, and now this was goodbye.

The pair of suits talked with me after the others had left to get me up to speed on the remaining bits and pieces that hadn’t been covered. Phoenix Strike was PRT property, but since it was tied to my identity, I retained the right to continue calling myself that, and I would continue to earn royalties from branding and merchandise. I didn’t expect it would amount to much. The costume pieces, my utility belt, my helmet, and all my PRT equipment, including my badges and phone, had to be turned in before exiting. I wasn’t wearing any of it and informed them it was in the appropriate storage areas, but I did turn in my badges and phone. They wiped it in front of me so I could verify and sign that there weren’t any data or privacy concerns.

With that all said and done, the pair escorted me out to the main entrance, and security took me back across the bridge and let me out through the gatehouse.

I was technically a Ward for three more days, but all my accesses had been revoked. I was no longer a PRT employee. I was just Morgan Rivera, a high school student, parahuman, and recently unemployed. I thought about calling my team. I didn’t know if they already knew or would be finding out after the fact. I imagined it would be a shit show, so I was content to let PRT break that news to them.

Right now, I needed some space, some wide open space, some time to think, and if needed, a place to cry, scream, or yell. I also needed to call my family and tell them I wasn’t going to be home right away. I checked the time. A little after two PM. Mom and Dad were both still working, and Melody would be in her final class.

I called dad.

“Hey, Dad. I’m not going to be home until later. Can you let Mom and Mel know for me?”

I could hear him typing in the background and the sounds of his office through the phone. “Your mom isn’t going to be happy about that. She told you no hero stuff.”

No hero stuff indeed.

“Don’t have to worry about that. I just have a lot on my mind right now, and I want to be alone to try and work through it.”

“Everything okay? You sound a little stressed. You know, I mean, outside getting out of the hospital this morning, of course.”

I paused for a long moment. The cool spring air coming off the sea was chilly, but it suited me right now. Finally, I answered: “No. Everything is not okay, Dad. But I’m not in any danger or risk or anything like that.”

“Do you want to ta-”

“No,” I cut him off, then added: “No, later. I need some time right now. I promise I’ll tell you and Mom when I get home.”

“Okay…” I could hear the concern in his voice, the doubts. “Don’t stay out too late, and keep out of the bad parts of town. Lots of crime lately, more than normal.”

“I know. And I will. I’m probably going to be at the boardwalk or downtown, I haven’t decided yet. Going to go now, love you.”

“Love you too. See you when you get home. Be safe.” I hung up when he finished talking. I did want to be alone right now. I walked towards the boardwalk; the outskirts of it weren’t far, just a handful of blocks. When I got there, I went down to the beach. Which, in late March, was practically empty. I sat down on some of the furniture the city maintained for tourists. A simple, functional, and mostly tamper-proof reclining lounger made from thickly-painted steel and recycled plastic materials.

I sat partially reclining back, watched the ocean, and thought. Minutes turned to hours, and before I knew it, the sun was setting and the temperatures were dropping. I was cold, tired, thirsty, and hungry. I’d been crying off and on throughout the afternoon, alternatively sad, angry, frustrated, and depressed. I think more than anything, I was bitter. Angry at myself for being scared of my power. For having issues and hangups, and anxiety attacks. For not leaning into what I was, taking advantage of it, casting my fear of the strange and at times, horrifying nature of my power aside, and proving I was strong. Resentful of myself for always holding myself back.

I thought about the enigmatic frontwoman of the Triumvirate, the three strongest heroes in the Protectorate, and one of my personal heroes: Alexandria. She was strong, fast, and powerful. But more than that, she was resolute, indomitable. She dictated her own course in life; she didn’t get tossed around or derailed by the whims of others. I wanted to be her, more than ever before, just thinking about it. I needed to be more like her if I wanted to succeed. After all, it had worked for her. She was one of the most recognizable and cherished heroes on the planet.

A memory surfaced unbidden in my mind.

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and if you want to keep being the little dog when you’re not, you’re going to get eaten.”

Maybe Sophia wasn’t as much of a stupid bitch as I thought. She was still a giant bitch, and I wasn’t ever going to be friends with her, but she had been exactly right in her assessment, as crude as it was.

When I’d been in the car accident with my dad, paralyzed and locked in, I’d triggered. That was outside of my control. That was something that had happened to me. I’d lost my dreams of sports, soccer championships, and fighting tournament victories as a result.

This event today? Being effectively terminated and losing my dream of being a protectorate hero here in Brockton Bay? That was the result of my actions. My unwillingness to embrace a power I still didn’t understand because it scared me, and because of my pride and vanity. I had done this to myself. That thought should have crushed me and left me curled up on this cold beach, crying my eyes out until there was nothing left. But instead, it burned. Like a brand inside my ribs, marking me with something I simply couldn’t ignore. This was my fault, which meant it was mine to fix.

At the tail end of sitting here and contemplating, I started to formulate ideas and make plans for dramatically changing my life. I was turning a new page in the Book of Morgan, and I was bound and determined that I would write the contents. What I was going to do was going to break hearts, cause fights, and hammer a splitting wedge into my family dynamic and household. But I had to do it. I was going to correct my mistakes and not repeat them. I was going to become the person I dreamed of being, even if it meant not doing it the way I’d envisioned.

I wasn’t going to run. Not from the Bay, and not from myself. I could take a job somewhere else, let the Protectorate tuck me away in some safer city where I’d never have to fight real monsters. But that felt like losing. It felt like settling. And New Wave? They were independent, yeah, but they played by their own rules. No masks. No second chances. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that, or if I’d ever be. What I did know was that I wasn’t taking the easy way out. If I was going to be strong, I needed to prove it, to myself as much as anyone else.

I was going to move out. I’d finish high school. I had money, a nice little nest egg dropping into my account within days. More important than anything else was that I was going to go my own way and do my own thing. If I failed, it would be my fault, and I’d know it. If I succeeded, though? It would be because I stood on my own merits.

I had to get home before my parents went into a panic. I pulled out my phone and called a cab for pickup, then rested back against the seat. While lost in thought, I had been running my fingertips over my spots for hours without even noticing. They itched, subtly, steadily, as they spread beneath my clothing. A honk from the street snapped me out of my thoughts. I blinked, pulling my hand from where it had rested under my shirt, warm against my abdomen. My ride home was waiting.

I arrived home right around eight PM. Mom and Dad were waiting for me in the living room.

“Where have you been?!” My mom practically snapped when I walked in.

I closed the door behind me and slipped my sneakers off.

“Can we talk in the kitchen? All of us?” I asked.

“Sure. I can warm up leftovers for you, too.” Dad offered, getting off the couch and walking to the kitchen. I walked into the dining room, Mom let Melody know I was home, and I sank into a kitchen chair at the table and put the fat manila envelope with the PRT logo on it in front of me. All my discharge paperwork was inside. Mom eyed the envelope and sighed. Melody gave me a hug over the back of my chair and pulled up a seat next to me, and a minute later, Dad entered with some microwaved roasted beef, veggies, and a sports drink. It smelled amazing, but I wanted to talk before eating. I worried I’d be sick otherwise.

“So what’s this all about?” Mom asked, her tone not quite as snippy as it had been when I’d entered. I waited for Dad to sit down before I spoke.

“They handled my graduation today while I was visiting for a checkup with my PRT doctor.”

“For the Wards, right?” Melody asked, and I nodded.

“You don’t sound excited or overly happy about it,” Dad observed.

I placed my palms flat on the table on either side of the envelope and took a deep breath.

“They’re not bringing me on to the Protectorate team. And I was released from my job at PRT. I’m technically a Ward until Thursday, the last day of my contract, but I’m out today. They confiscated all my PRT property, equipment, and ID.” There was a moment of silence, then everyone but me spoke all at once.

“What!? Can they do that?” Dad blurted.

“Honey… I’m sorry,” from Mom.

“That’s bullshit!” Melody practically shouted, slamming her fists on the table and rattling the silverware on my plate of food.

I waited for them to quiet down, then resumed offloading what I had to say: “They can. They’re not obligated to hire me. They said they can get me in elsewhere in the country, in other districts-”

“So we’ll sell the house and move-” Mom started to say, and Dad looked at her and nodded.

“No.” My voice was soft, and they kept talking.

“...Can transfer to company branches throughout the US, that’s not a problem…”

“...I mean, the school year is almost over, can we stay until we grad-”

“...Values are down across the city, but we wouldn’t get hit too bad by the drop here…”

I raised one of my palms from the surface of the table and clapped it back down with a bang!

“No!” I said, much louder and forcefully this time around. They turned to look at me. “I’m going to become an independent hero. I’m going to live my life and follow my dreams, with or without the PRT’s support or backing.”

Melody was giving me an intense look, and not in a good way.

“We’ll support you any way we can, of course,” Dad reassured me.

Mom nodded along and said, “We can afford it, get you your own costume made professionally, and some equipment.”

My heart wrenched in my chest, and my eyes welled up. I looked away from Melody. I couldn’t face her with what I was about to say.

“I’m moving out. As soon as possible. I’m still going to go to school. I’ll still be here and visit constantly. But I can’t risk having someone follow me home to you all, to have something happen like what happened with New Wave. I’d rather die than let that happen. I have to leave and maintain a little distance.”

The back of Melody’s wooden chair crashed loudly into the floor tiles as she jerked to her feet. I turned to look over and up at her. Tears were streaming down her face, her mascara running horribly down her cheeks. She was clenching and unclenching her jaw. I knew I’d hurt her, hurt her worse than I had ever before. I expected her to scream.

“You promised me, you swore you weren’t going to do this.” Her voice was quiet, hurt, and no small part angry.

“Mel, I never saw this co-”

I didn’t get a chance to finish, she slapped me so hard across the face that my ear was ringing and my cheek burned like it’d been set on fire. She turned on her heel and walked out of the dining room towards the staircase and her room upstairs, across the hall from my own. Glancing back at the edge of the doorway, she looked at me and said, “I hate you.”

With that, she was gone.

I cried, rubbing my cheek, but more out of raw shame and remorse than the pain she’d inflicted on me. I deserved it. Mom and Dad sat with me, and we talked until well after midnight. I ate my food cold. Melody never came back down.

Days passed. Melody drove herself to school, and I rode the bus. Mom and I looked for cheap apartments in the general area. Melody didn’t talk to me, didn’t sit with me at lunch, and didn’t even look at me at school. Come Friday, my money was in the bank, and we’d put a deposit down on a place a bit north and west of the boardwalk. It was a refinished storefront turned into a two-story apartment. The construction wasn’t old, but it also wasn’t great. Fine first apartment material, Mom, Dad, and I had decided, and the price was right. By Saturday afternoon, I had moved in and had a very basic and spartan load of furniture, some secondhand, some donated from the house, and the rest purchased at a bulk import furniture store.

I was hurt, emotionally, and desperately missed my twin sister. Mom and Dad knew I was struggling with everything, and they supported me a bit more than they might have otherwise, in the wake of my separation from the PRT and fight with Melody. I decided I was going to take the week off from doing anything hero related, just go to school, and try to acclimate to living alone for the first time.

Waking up Sunday morning, I went and worked out at a new local gym first thing. After getting back home and showering, I noticed something that grabbed my attention. My skin had felt slightly itchy around my spots for days now, not enough that I wanted to scratch, just very mildly annoying with tingles. I’d been doing well keeping them covered, but as I stood in front of the mirror, my gaze was drawn to the two spots on my lower abdomen. They had branches facing each other before, nearly touching under my navel. I drew closer to the mirror and squinted. They weren’t almost touching. They were quite connected, and touching and stretching the skin around it confirmed what my eyes were seeing.

I locked my power down as hard as I could. I crammed that ocean into a mental bottle and corked it. I had been very distracted over the weekend with so much else going on; maybe I’d been using my power at a low level without realizing it. I wasn’t going to let this persist. I had enough problems in my life going on right now than to have to deal with looking like some kind of blueberry juice spill victim.

Chapter Text

Morgan: You think I could come over sometime this week and talk to your family about New Wave?

Me: Are you kidding? Of course! You know Carol likes you and Melody and she’s always nagging us to have people over anyways. That whole family dinner thing.

Morgan: Thanks. I’m not giving up after everything. I know I’ve got options out there. I want to stay local for Mel. Just be me though. She’s still furious.

Me: Ames and I have gotten into some bad ones before. Give her some time. She still loves you.

Morgan: I know. That was my plan, let her cool her jets.

Me: How are you holding up? You’re all recovered, right? Don’t push yourself.

Morgan: Been going through tissues, but more mad than anything. Healed up but my power’s acting out wicked. Started feeling pretty bad little while ago.

Me: Acting out? How?

Morgan: IDK, pushing? Hard 2 desc. Have 2 fite 2 keep it off. BRB going 2 b skick

Me: Hope you feel better soon.

It ever do that before, or is this new?

Morgan? You there? Don’t ghost on me that makes me nervous.

Morgan: Smthg wrnog

need help

NO PRT R EMS

just u

Me: OK!! OMW! Where??

Morgan: Mt new plce |Location|

I flew up off my bed and glanced over at my closet. The thought of getting into costume crossed my mind, but she’d said she didn’t want any PRT or emergency services, so I figured discretion would be better. Plainclothes, it is. My heart rate was elevated, and I was really worried. The mention of EMS indicated this was something emergency-worthy, and it was unlike Morgan to ever ask for help like this. I did have one big conflict I had to figure out, though.

She had asked me to come alone, but she’d also said she was sick and from the sounds of things, getting worse. Time was essential in an emergency, but I wanted to respect her desire for privacy. Things related to powers were, by their very nature, pretty intimate and struck close to home when it came to emotions and vulnerabilities. I made up my mind. I’d rather ask forgiveness than ask permission in a situation like this.

My door slammed against the reinforced stopper with a loud “Bang!” as I yanked it open to dart over to Amy’s room.

Carol yelled sharply from downstairs: “VICKY!”

“Sorry, Mom, got excited!” I yelled down the staircase.

I barged straight into Amy’s room. She was sitting on her bed with her laptop on her lap and practically threw it into the air while going “AH! Vicky KNOCK FIRST!”

Another sharp yell from downstairs: “VICKY!”

I spun and closed the door gently, then faced Amy. I dropped the volume of my voice: “Amy, we gotta go right now, someone needs help. It’s an emergency.”

She frowned at me and said, “You know today’s an off day, are you trying to piss off Carol and get us grounded?”

“Amy, now’s not the time, it’s Morgan, she needs help, I think she’s hurt, maybe bad. Come on, we gotta go. I’ll just lie to Mom and tell her we’re late to a movie or something.”

“Morgan?” The look that crossed over Amy’s face told me her protest had ceased. She clapped the lid of her laptop closed and set it on her desk, then got up to go to her wardrobe.

“No costumes, we’re going for a movie, remember?”

“Oh, right. Well, let’s go then. Am I dressed alright?” She looked down at her yoga pants and sweatshirt.

“I don’t think she cares right now, Ames! Come on.” I spun back around in my hovering position and opened the door to go downstairs, Amy hot on my heels.

“Hey, Mom, we’re heading out. I totally forgot that we changed movie showtimes to be earlier, so we’re running way super late already.” Mom peeked her head back and looked around the doorframe from the kitchen to the living room.

“You didn’t mention going out for movies?” She asked.

“Right, we were going to go later, so I was going to ask then, then M&M changed the ticket times, sorry!”

“You have money?” Dad asked from the sofa.

“What are you watching?” Asked Mom.

“Yep!” I answered Dad.

“Murderous Hobos,” said Amy.

Nice save, Amy. Leave it to you to know what’s actually playing right now.

Carol made a face at the answer and sighed. “Fine, but you four need to start watching less trashy movies.”

“Thanks, Mom! We gotta go! Seeya! I’ll text you later, we’re probably gonna hang out on the boardwalk after and get some food!”

That gives us extra time if we need it.

Amy and I pulled shoes on really quickly before darting out the door.

I heard Dad as we were closing the door: “You know we used to watch some pretty trashy movies…”

Scooping Amy up into a princess carry, I waited for her to throw her arms around my neck before I took off. Almost straight up to get my bearings, and then northeast. We’d be there momentarily. I just had to gauge where exactly her apartment was. It took me entirely way too long to locate it without the help of my phone.

Landing, I set Amy down and knocked on the front door. There wasn’t any response. I knocked a few more times. Nothing. I tried the handle. It was locked.

“What should we do?

I frowned and texted her a few times. The send receipts were all marked as ‘delivered’ and not ‘read.’

“I think we’re going to have to break in. Not that uh, it would be hard, but maybe I should try and minimize damages.”

We went around to the side of the apartment facing away from the street, and I flew up to the second-story window.

Careful, we don’t want to shatter the window.

Pressing very carefully on the frame, I lifted the sliding portion of the window until there was a “Ping!” from inside, and the locking latch snapped off. Sliding it open, I dropped back down and helped Amy up and through the window before coming through myself and closing it behind us. I don’t think anyone saw us. We were in an upstairs bedroom, and the door was shut.

“We can’t afford to get into trouble again, Vicky.” Amy was looking at the broken window hardware on the floor.

“She’s our friend, she isn’t going to care, she asked me to come over to help her, and she might be hurt pretty badly.” I cleared my throat and called out, “Morgan?” towards the door. Again, no response. I took the lead and opened the door.

The wave of smell that hit my face when the door opened made me want to gag. Coppery blood, combined with the acidic reek of vomit. It was bad, the kind of smell that you would get in the hospital that the antiseptics mostly covered up. I glanced back at Amy, and she had a look of determination on her face.

“Come on, let’s go,” she said. I nodded and we headed out onto the landing and towards the source of the smell, which was coming from downstairs. The lights were on, and there was some music from a video game or something playing in the background. I’d no more gotten to the bottom of the stairs and started to look around when I saw her phone on the floor, next to a pool of blood and bile. Morgan was in the center of it, sprawled on her side with one arm stretched out over her head like she’d been reaching for the phone.

She looked bad. Really bad. Her sports bra and running shorts were soaked through with blood, her hair matted and stuck to her face with filth. Her skin was ashen, she was slick with sweat, trails cutting through the grime. Her eyes were open but vacant, lips tinged blue. She was breathing fast and shallow. Her breath was gurgling, her nose bleeding, and there was pink foam on the floor in front of her mouth.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.” Amy was hopping up and down, one foot and ripping her shoes off, and already had her sweatshirt tossed on the staircase.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

“I don’t have a change of clothes, Vicky! You want to go home looking like we’re the murder hobos?!”

Aw shit! She’s right. I’ll just keep my forcefield up.

“Right, sorry.” I floated forward, heart pounding, hovering just an inch above the sticky floor. “Morgan? Can you hear me?" My voice cracked. "Morgan?”

She shook, then coughed a wad of foam up. Her eyes rolled around some before finding me as I came to a stop in front of her and kneeled down on the cheap linoleum flooring.

“V-Vic. Hey. M’lil unner the weather.” Her speech was slurred, and she grimaced as another shudder ran through her; she clutched her abdomen with her free hand.

“Hey, don’t worry, I brought Amy over with me, we’re going to get you all fixed up right away, okay?”

Her lips turned up a little, and she said: “‘kay.”

Amy came right over and kneeled in the blood and muck and placed her hand on Morgan’s thigh. She was wearing only her underwear. She screwed her face up in concentration for a moment, then pulled her hand back. “W-what? How? Huh?”

“What is it?” I asked her.

She mumbled something under her breath, but I couldn’t quite make out.

Did she say cancer?

“Her organs are toast. Some of them are dead inside of her.”

I wasn’t a doctor, but that sounded bad. “You can help her, right?” Amy was the closest thing I’d ever seen to an actual miracle worker. She’d saved people with huge chunks of their bodies missing before. She reached out and put her hand back on Morgan’s thigh and closed her eyes.

"What's this? She's a changer?" Amy opened her eyes, frowning, hand still pressed to Morgan's skin. "There's... a core. In her chest. It's connected to..."

"No," I said slowly, tilting my head. "She's a brute."

Amy shook her head, voice firm. "No, she's for sure a changer. I've seen brutes. This is different. She's got a structure. Systems layered beneath her organs, like vines wrapped around them."

She grabbed Morgan's wrist and moved her ruined, shredded hand aside. Then, without hesitation, Amy wiped a thick swath of blood from her lower chest.

That's when I saw them.

Twisting, curling tracts of blue skin wound across her side and abdomen like thorned vines. They linked together around circular and elliptical points... some kind of anchors? They ranged in size from coins to full palms.

Fractal patterns. Alien. Ordered. Beautiful and horrifying all at once.

Amy’s brow furrowed. She looked shaken, confused. “There’s something happening in her body,” She murmured, more to herself than me. “But it’s… interrupted? Is she causing it, or fighting it?” Then more forcefully, to Morgan: “Morgan. Are you using your power right now?”

Morgan’s head rolled slightly as she struggled to focus. Her voice came out slurred and raw: “N-nuh. Can’t let it out. Can’t let it out.”

She sounded delirious to me.

Amy leaned in until she was nearly face-to-face with her, her voice sharp and urgent. “Hey. Hey! You have to let it out. You’re going to die if you don’t.”

The poor girl drew in a gurgling breath, then a sob. Deep, wet, soul-wracking.

“I don’t–I don’t want to be a Case fifty-three!”

She hacked, a choking cough, red flecks sprayed across the floor.

Amy slapped her cheek, hard. The crack echoed through the apartment.

“You’d rather die and leave Melody alone instead?”

I flinched; the venom in Amy’s voice stung even me.

Whatever fight Morgan had left in her fled. Her bloodshot eyes squeezed shut, and she shook her head once. Then she went slack, completely limp. She looked dead.

“She’s passed out,” Amy snapped, already shifting gears. She didn’t even look at me as she rattled off orders. “Vicky: towels, washcloths, paper towels, anything absorbent. Bucket or two of hot water if she has them. Bleach, floor cleaner, soap. Then go grab takeout. A lot. Big family-sized meal. I might have to use my power; I’ll need the calories. We’re going to be here a while.”

I blinked, thrown off for half a second. Amy was on fire. I’d seen glimpses of this side of her in emergencies, but never like this. Never this focused and in control.

Pride welled up in my chest.

I nodded and moved fast, already mentally tallying what she’d need and where to look for it.

Morgan’s apartment was pretty spartan. She hadn’t been here long, but she had stocked the essentials. I grabbed half a dozen bath towels, as many hand towels and washcloths, and bundled them in a sheet like a makeshift satchel. Paper towels, a big pack, went in next. Cleaning supplies, most fresh and unopened, were all tossed into the pile.

Pots were small, but I found three. She clearly didn’t cook much. For water containers, I grabbed her mop bucket, the crisper bin from her fridge, and the ice bucket from the freezer. I filled them with steaming hot water, sink and tub running at full blast. By the time I brought them to Amy, she’d already soaked half the pack of paper towels, mopping up blood and vomit.

She pressed her hand to Morgan’s thigh every so often, maybe checking vitals, maybe more.

“Trash bags,” she said, brisk but calm.

I returned with the bags. We worked in tandem, scooping up sodden towels and stuffing them into the plastic. That’s when she looked up at me. “Sorry, I got excited,” Amy said, brushing a damp lock of hair off her face. “It’s just, it’s different when it’s a friend and someone you care about, not another patient on a chart. I really didn’t want her to die. She was minutes away from being a corpse.”

I leaned in and hugged her around the shoulders, my forcefield keeping any gunk off me.

“Amy, I’m really proud of you,” I said, giving her a squeeze before pulling back. “Your power kicks ass.”

Amy blushed furiously and replied: “I haven’t really done much yet. Her– I think she’s like me, Vicky.”

“She can heal people?”

Amy’s talking about her power. Voluntarily. This never happens.

She shook her head. “Not like that, I mean…sort of? Her power’s healing her, but not the way a brute regenerates. It’s changing her. Like how I can modify a microbe to help instead of harm? She’s doing something like that, to herself.”

Amy paused, then added, quieter: “But it’s… weird. Some of it feels familiar, but it’s all wrong. There is a scale and complexity I can barely read. And what I can see? It’s like nothing I’ve ever touched before.”

I frowned: “Different how?”

Amy's response came quickly: “It’s not human biology. I’m not even sure it’s all carbon-based. And some of the materials… I think they’re being made by that core in her chest.”

Not human.

It sent a chill up my spine.

But Amy didn’t seem worried. So I nodded. She was the expert here.

I tied off a third black trash bag with a triple-knot. That was almost the entirety of the mess on the floor and a good chunk of what had been on Morgan. Amy grabbed the mop bucket and a tan hand towel, wrung it out, and started in on cleaning her up.

“You should probably go out for the other stuff. Oh, and take those bags with you. Can I ask a favor?” Amy asked me.

“Of course, name it.”

“I know it’s out of the way, but can you drop the bags off behind the hospital? There’s a fenced-in area near the loading docks: barbed wire, big brightly-colored dumpsters. Biohazard disposal. It’s where we toss anything medical.”

She hesitated. “There’s nothing dangerous in her fluids, not really, but I’d rather not risk BBPD stumbling into it somewhere else and thinking it’s a crime scene.”

Good thinking. “Yeah, that’s smart, I can do that, it’ll delay me getting back a bit since I’ll have to go do that first before getting any food. You sure you’ll be fine here alone?”

“I’ve got my phone,” she said, swabbing Morgan’s neck. “And she’s not waking up anytime soon. Her body’s burning everything it’s got on repairs. Just grab her keys and lock the door behind you.”

“Got it. Any food preferences?”

Amy rocked her head from side to side, thinking. “Smoke Pit BBQ? I want my usual. And probably a couple of pounds of pulled pork, or a chicken or two, for Morgan. Or both. She’s going to need a lot of protein.” She glanced up at me. “Can you afford it?”

I thought about it. Smoke Pit was a little pricy for dine-in stuff, but you could get big orders of meats at pretty good prices.

“Should be fine! I can hit an ATM if I have to, and I doubt Mom or Dad will notice since we said we’d be going out and doing some shopping.”

I found her keys on the coffee table in front of her couch. I went over and gave Amy another quick hug from behind, made a mental checklist of the stops I’d need to make, and grabbed the trash bags. They were probably heavy, but nothing Glory Girl couldn’t handle. Making my way to the front door, I pulled the deadbolt back and looked back at Amy to see her watching me leave.

“Call if you need anything, or if anything comes up, please? I’ll be back as soon as I can, but I think I need three or four stops for everything.”

“I will. Promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

I nodded and stepped out, locking the door securely behind me. I took the trash bags around to the back of the apartment before taking them to the air and starting my trip.

First stop: the hospital. I found the dumpsters Amy was talking about and deposited the bags. Thankfully, they’d sealed up decently well, and I didn’t have to deal with the oppressive smell. I did hold my breath opening the biowaste dumpster, though.

Next was stopping at a local grocery store to get another jumbo pack of paper towels, to replace what we’d used. I grabbed a bungee cord from the housewares aisle. After checkout, I popped holes in the packaging, threaded the cord through the cardboard tubes, and looped it to make it easier to carry one-handed.

One less thing to juggle.

Last stop: Smoke Pit. The line was long, no surprise, it was always packed. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have called ahead, but my head was elsewhere. I grabbed a takeout menu, marked down the order, and handed it to the counter girl. She told me it would be 15 to 30 and took my number for a callback. I was worried about my friend. She seemed convinced she was turning into a Case Fifty-Three.

C53s were the PRT classification for monstrous or nonhuman parahumans. “Monstrous” had been the old term, but even before I got my powers, the official name had taken hold: named after the case file number from the first known incident.

They weren’t just inhuman in appearance. They were strange in other ways, too. None of them remembered where they came from. No childhood, no family, no past. Most just showed up somewhere one day. Fully functional, able to talk and think and move like any normal adult, but with nothing from before that moment.

I didn’t know any personally, but New Wave had dealt with a few over the years. Some, most, went villain, but not all.

It was possible, in theory, that becoming a Case 53 meant losing your memories. Maybe something went wrong during the transformation. Parahuman Studies at BBU, which I was enrolled in, had floated the idea that the memory loss came from the same brain rewiring that created powers. Like… trauma breaking the person, and something in that break wiping everything clean.

But Morgan already had powers. She’d triggered over a year ago. She’d been a Ward.

It didn’t match up. None of it made any sense.

Thinking of the stories from my family made me think back to the conversation we were having about Morgan talking about New Wave. I winced a little.

Mom was big on optics. Borderline obsessive about it, honestly. She never let Amy or me forget how important it was to present ourselves well, to uphold the image of the team. If Morgan really was mutating, if she didn’t look human… I couldn’t imagine Mom being on board with her joining.

Then again. Maybe. She was cunning when it came to strategy. Playing the long game. If New Wave wanted to differentiate itself from the PRT, welcoming someone like that might be a power move.

I fired off a few texts to Amy to check-in. She replied quickly: everything was fine, she was keeping watch, and Morgan was out cold. “Super cool stuff going on,” she added cryptically.

My phone buzzed with an SMS from the restaurant that the order was ready.

I texted Amy and relayed the message that I’d be back shortly. Heading into the take-out area, the waitress had a handful of bags, each stacked with trays, tubs, and containers. There was a 4-pack of 2-liter sodas with the order too. The cashier, a young woman with a pixie cut, looked at me, blinked twice, then blushed.

“Are you… Glory Girl?”

I smiled. “Yup, that’s me.”

We took a selfie in front of the takeout counter, and I threw a sideways peace sign. She was so excited that she was practically vibrating afterward.

Cashing out completed, I loaded up the half dozen bags of food and drinks in one hand and then made my way outside. Lifting off, I grabbed the roll of paper towels I’d left hooked on a nearby rooftop antenna and flew back.

My phone vibrated as I was landing, and I dropped the paper towels to fish out the keys and check the message.

Amy: Try to be quiet when you come in, she’s only lightly sleeping now. And don’t freak out about the way she looks. It’s… pretty dramatic.

Me: Coming in now.

I put the key in the lock and unlocked the door as quietly as I could and made my way in. Closing and locking the door behind me, I turned to bring the food into the kitchen.

The apartment was definitely converted from a commercial space. The first floor was all open: living room blended into the kitchen, high ceilings, deep layout. Besides a tucked-away bathroom beneath the stairs and a pantry along the back wall, there wasn’t much in the way of separation. Just a line where linoleum met carpet that divided the kitchen from the living space.

Pretty dramatic is a pretty dramatic undersell.

Amy was sitting on the floor, leaning against something very large, and very blue, absently petting it. It dwarfed my sister. Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

The uncanny valley hit me like a sucker punch. Amy looked up as I hovered a few inches off the floor, brought a finger to her lips, and smiled. She pointed toward the kitchen counter. I nodded, a little numb, and she turned back, resuming the petting. Her fingers slid through something that looked like–

Tentacles. Wriggling, slow-moving, lazily coiling tentacles that responded to her touch. Some twined gently between her fingers.

I set the paper towels down and floated over to the kitchen with the load of food, trying not to make too much noise as I unpacked. Plastic grocery bags crinkling and paper takeout sacks weren’t exactly subtle, but I managed. Once everything was laid out, I drifted back, circling around for a better look. I lowered to the floor beside Amy and kept my voice low.

“Is that… her?”

Amy glanced over and bobbed her head once.

“Are you sure?”

Amy shot me a look like I’d just asked her if water was wet.

I held my hands up, palms out. “Okay, okay.”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” she whispered. “I watched her change. This is Morgan. The real Morgan.”

The real Morgan?

My eyes flicked back to the shape. Massive, alien, calm, and sleeping.

Amy resumed stroking her head–if that was what it was–running her fingers through thick tendrils that shifted like seaweed underwater. They responded to her touch, slow and gentle, brushing against her hand as if they recognized her.

She was still humanoid, mostly. Two disproportionately large arms were folded up over her head, surrounding it. Each one was longer than I was tall, and her forearms were easily as wide as my torso. Her hands were enormous, four thick fingers tipped in curved black claws the width of my upper arm. Amy was nestled against her shoulder and armpit, barely noticeable in comparison.

Her shoulders were strange. Not just broad–massive–but bulbous, capped in short, conical spikes like polished horn.

Everything below that was partially hidden beneath a drape of wings. Six of them, insect-like, covered her body like a blanket. They were mostly transparent, but with an oily, opalescent sheen that made the overlapping layers shimmer like frosted glass. The effect was oddly beautiful. Hypnotic.

Two huge paws stuck out from the bottom of the wing-drape, along with a thick, muscular tail. The tail was absurdly long, long enough to reach across the kitchen and loop back again. It tapered slowly, ending not in a point, but in three articulated claws like a bird of prey. From the top of her tentacles to the tips of her toe claws, I guessed she was easily fifteen feet long. Maybe more. The tail doubled that length, easily.

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“She’s… Big.”

Amy nodded. “She’s starting to rouse from sleep. She should be waking soon.”

That pulled me out of my daze. “Amy, get away from her. Before she wakes up.”

She gave me a look. “I don’t think she would hurt me, Vicky.”

“That’s not what I mean. Think about when I first got my powers. I wasn’t used to my strength. She’s going to be dealing with that, and she’s got extra limbs.”

Amy frowned, then nodded. “Good point.” She stood up, wincing. “Ow. Leg’s asleep.” She hobbled over to the couch. “Would you swap with me? I think having someone close might help. And… you’re tougher.”

“Uh- yeah, sure.” I took up a spot right next to Morgan near where she’d just vacated. Just in case, I kept my forcefield up.

She began to stir almost immediately. Her tail twitched, scraping lightly across the floor. Then her arms uncurled, stretching out over her head, past the vinyl, and into the carpeted space like tree limbs. A long, muffled yawn echoed from somewhere deep inside her chest, followed by a crackling cascade of pops and crunches all the way down her spine.

Somewhat nervously, I reached out a hand to her shoulder. “Hey, Morgan? It’s Victoria, Amy’s here too. Did you sleep well?”

Her chest rumbled, growled, deep and low, and I felt it in my chest and in my bones.

I drew my hand back before it made contact.

Oh shit.

Chapter Text

I slept deeply, mostly dreamless, or maybe it would be more accurate to say it wasn’t a particularly eventful dream.

I floated on my back in the ocean. Peaceful. Still. The water cradled and supported me, warm instead of cold, and the stars above flickered like embers in a breeze I couldn’t feel. I didn’t know if I was dreaming, or just… resting. But I needed it.

I closed my eyes again and let the sea carry me.

The next thing I was aware of was two girls talking quietly nearby.

I stretched. Joints cracked, popped, satisfying in a way I didn’t know I needed. My back crunched, and I groaned in relief. My mind felt syrupy, slow, and still waking up. My body, oddly, felt rested. Energized, even. The blanket over my head squirmed slightly, which was… weird, but it was so comfortable that I didn’t think much of it. Something smelled amazing, sharp, and smoky. My stomach growled, and I yawned.

“Morgan?”

Victoria. Right. She was coming over to my new place today. Had I fallen asleep before she got here? “Mmyea?” I managed. But–what the hell? My voice was wrong. Raspy, deep. Really deep. Like it belonged to someone twice my size.

“Can you hold really still and keep calm while you wake up? I’ll try and explain what’s going on.”

“Yeah, sure?” I said, uncertain.

“You were trying to hold your power in before you passed out, remember? It made you really sick. But once you were out, you… changed. A lot.”

Oh, that’s right.

“You’re kinda huge now. And you’re uh… taking up most of your apartment. So before you move around too much, try not to break anything, okay? That couch’s innocent.”

I guess the blue is out of the bag. We’ll deal with this. One step at a time. I let out a long breath. “I really don’t want to lose the deposit on this place.” I hesitated, then asked with resignation: “Tell me: am I blue?”

My voice rumbled like distant thunder.

Both of them laughed. The sound was warm. Familiar. It cut through some of the cold pressure coiled inside my chest.

“Yes,” Victoria said. “You’re very blue. And really very big.”

Amy’s voice chimed in, unusually animated. “You changed right in front of me, Morgan. I watched everything. Your new form it’s incredible. You’re not going to believe what you can do. It’s kind of amazing.”

“Amy…” Victoria’s voice held a gentle warning.

I responded, and my chest vibrated a little against the floor. I realized I was on a hard floor, but oddly enough, it didn’t really feel uncomfortable to me.

“Okay, okay. Calm, slow. Got it. Just, ugh, I’m starving. And why are you both yelling?”

I reached up and tried to brush the blanket off my face with the back of my thumb. “Slow! Slow slow slow!” Vicky’s voice was strained, and her volume made my ears tingle.

“Okay, okay, jeeze. I was going slow. I’ll go sloth speed. God, Vicky.” I was having a hard time getting the blanket off my face for some reason. It wasn’t a blanket. I tried again, slower, and felt the back of my thumb brush my… scalp? Wait. Was my hair doing that weird thing again? Had it gotten long enough to… no, that wasn’t hair. That was something else. What the hell was that? Annoyed, I gave it another shove and finally got it off my face.

“Ow, bright.” The lights hit harder than usual, like someone had cranked the brightness to max. I squeezed them shut.

I started to push myself upright at sloth speed, but holy shit, my hands were slick, like I was greased up and on satin sheets. This was way harder than it should have been.

“Let me help. Just sit up, okay? On your butt.” Vicky’s voice was close, off to my left, hands already reaching.

I felt her slip under my armpit and lift me slowly upright. I shifted my legs around with her doing the bulk of the lifting, so I’d be sitting cross-legged. Something was pressing at my lower back too, but it actually helped me balance.

“Holy- damn, Morgan. You weigh a ton,” Victoria wheezed. “Maybe more than a ton.” Oh, come on!

“Wow, rude!” I said, mock-offended. Amy giggled. Victoria slipped out from under my armpit.

I was about to crack my eyes open again, but some of the things I was feeling didn’t add up. I frowned, trying to make sense of it. My hands were in my lap. But also… not? Two of them were stretched out in front of me at weird angles, palms up, like they belonged to someone else. I cracked my eyes open a little bit at a time and let them adjust to the brightness. My stomach growled again, loud, demanding.

Vicky was right in front of my face, hovering just a couple of feet back. She smiled and waved, and I rolled my eyes.

I glanced down, and my brain stalled, trying to make sense of it all.

I was sitting cross-legged. Vicky was hovering a couple of inches off the floor in a standing position, but she was also at eye level with me.

Big.

Two inhuman-looking arms were stretched out from my shoulders, resting with the backs of my hands sitting on the floor more than a couple of feet away. The hands had three fingers and a thumb, curved black claws a foot long, and someone could have sat comfortably in one of the palms. The hands were massive, and the forearms connected to them like tree trunks.

Blue.

There were also arms resting flush against my torso, with my hands in my lap. These looked like normal human arms and hands, if you discounted the varying shades of blue, speckled patterning, and several-inch-long black claws attached to each fingertip.

Four.

There weren’t any boobs blocking my view of my lap, and I didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.

I tried to think of something to say. Anything that could make sense of what I was seeing. What I was feeling.

“Oh.” That was all I managed. It was the only thing that fit. My lower lip trembled. My vision blurred. I started crying.

I looked down at my lap.

It was too far away.

“Hey!” Amy. Fast footsteps, and then Victoria: “Amy, n-”

“Vicky, stop. She needs us right now.” Amy’s voice was sharp, responding to Victoria.

Amy, who never raises her voice, barely challenges anyone. Cutting Victoria off.

She stepped up onto my lap like she was climbing a staircase, stepping on my lower shin and then my upper thigh, and then she hopped up a bit and threw her arms around my neck. I was very aware of the fact that she was standing on my lap, and I barely felt like she weighed anything at all.

“Just, Morgan, when I got my powers and got super strength, I was constantly breaking things and accidentally hurting people by bumping into them. Still happens sometimes now. Just… Please, be careful with my sister. Try to avoid grabbing or holding her until you get used to it.” Victoria’s voice was thick with concern for the well-being of her sister, and I thought about accidentally hurting Melody. I wouldn’t do that to her. I held very still and nodded.

Amy’s face was right up in mine, only inches separating our noses. She looked tiny to me, like a child. She stared into my eyes intently.

“Hey, Morgan,” Amy whispered, her voice wobbled, like she wasn’t sure what tone to use. “I know this is a lot. Like… your whole life flipped upside-down.”

I blinked away a few tears and nodded again. My chest hurt, and I didn’t want to talk with how my lips and jaw were trembling.

“I know this isn’t how you’re used to looking. And that stresses you out super bad.”

I swallowed bile in my throat and asked her: “How can you possibly know what I’m feeling? Are you secretly an empath?”

“No, not exactly. But when I’m touching you, I can see everything. Your organs, your nerves. Your stress levels are spiking like alarm bells. I can feel your body panicking. And I need you to hear me, okay?”

I nodded, cleared my throat, and told her: “Okay. I’ll try my best. I promise.”

“You are…” she hesitated, a breath caught in her throat. “Morgan, you’re… amazing. I’ve never seen anything like you. Not even close. Your biology, your core, the way you’re still you even after all of it–”

I really didn’t want a pep talk right now. I shook my head just a little and said: “Phoenix Strike is-”

She cut me off. “I’m not talking about Phoenix Strike. I’m talking about you, right here, right now. You’re still Morgan Rivera here.” She pulled one arm back and tapped my forehead. “And your power… It’s something else. Your new body, look, I’m not trying to hype you up. I’ve never seen anything like this. When you have the space to actually move, to experiment, to really test it? I think you’ll realize the potential you have. Not here, obviously.

“Happy?” I asked, my voice deep, rough, bass-laden, and growly. I didn’t recognize it.

I looked down at my arms, the big ones, the ones tipped with claws the size of my old forearms.

Happy? I flexed my fingers and saw the smaller pair of hands move in sync.

I sucked in a breath and felt the volume of it in my chest. The mass of me now, the space I took up. Too much. My balance, off. Wrong. All wrong. I shook my head just a little. “I get that you’re excited, Amy, really, but…” I swallowed, frustrated. “I’m struggling to wrap my head around the practical reality of this. This isn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be strong, tough, powerful, not…” I nodded down towards my arms, too afraid to move like any wrong motion might hurt someone. “...not this.”

Amy’s expression flickered, wavered, and faltered. I thought I might have seen a flash of uncertainty, but I wasn’t sure. She looked back at her sister.

“Ames, maybe give her a little time and space. She can make up her mind in due time.” Victoria’s voice was calm, steady, and seemingly reassured by how still I was being around her sister.

Amy frowned but didn’t back down. “I am giving her time, but you two, you aren’t seeing what I am.” She turned back to me, pleading. “I know this feels wrong right now. But it’s not a bad thing, Morgan. Your body works. You’re strong. Resilient. It’s just going to take some time. And you’re still you. I promise you’re still you.”

My jaw tightened. I lost my cool and snapped: “And what if I can’t adjust? What if this is all I get now? What if I can’t go back!? Do you think I’m going to do a good job saving someone from a burning building? People might run into a burning building to get away from me! How can I be a hero if I scare people shitless when they see me!? I don’t even recognize myself.”

I glanced back down at myself, and a terrible realization slammed into me. Anxiety and dread crawled up from my gut, and crept into my new, different voice: “Am I-” I choked a moment, and swallowed. “Am I even female anymore!?”

Amy opened her mouth, then closed it. Her brows drew together. Yeah. That’s what I thought.

“Morgan…”

“Could you step down off me, please?”

Amy sighed and did as I asked, climbing down. She crossed to Victoria and the two of them stood a few feet back, facing me.

Victoria spoke first: “Do you want us to leave?”

She was always very considerate like that.

I thought about it. Really thought about it. There was a tangled, knotted mess in my chest, a web of too many feelings at once. I shifted, adjusting my weight. My claws scraped against the floor. Too heavy, too large, too differently balanced. I exhaled hard.

“I–no. I think I’d like to have your company.”

I paused, sighing deeply.

“This is… a lot. But being alone would probably make it worse.”

I looked at Amy.

“I’m sorry for snapping. You didn’t deserve that. You’re both trying to help. I know that.”

Amy gave a small, careful smile. Vicky smiled too, more warmly. I think I hurt Amy a little, but the apology helped.

“We got a ton of food because Amy thought you’d be starving when you woke up. You want some barbecue?”

The snarling roar of my stomach answered that question.

“I’d love some. Thank you. And Amy? Thank you, too, for staying. I really do appreciate it, appreciate you.”

That smile again, but this time it reached her eyes.

For the first time since I woke up, the thought of sitting and eating with them made me feel just a little more human.

Victoria slid the table and a pair of chairs over closer to the countertop that surrounded the kitchen, and started doling out food. She and Amy each got a big tray. The crack of a two-liter bottle of lemon-lime soda opening made me flinch slightly, then relax.

Victoria glanced around, looking for someone. I tried to point, and both my right arms moved in perfect sync.

Frustration bubbled up. What was the point of having two sets of arms if they just mirrored each other? One proportional to my body and recognizable, one grotesquely oversized?

I dropped both sets down. The large pair thumped onto the floor. The other, lighter pair, settled into my lap.

I nodded my head instead.

“Left of the sink, upper cabinets.”

“Got it!” Victoria said without missing a beat.

“Hey, Morgan?” Amy asked.

“Yeah?”

“Your arms, I know what’s going on there.” She picked up a plastic spork and scooped a heaping pile of barbecue into her mouth before continuing, half-muffled, “You’ll need practice, but I’ve seen stuff like it before, back at the hospital. I can show you a few tricks after dinner.”

The steam rising from the trays and bags on the counter hit my nose. My mouth watered. The only problem: I had no idea how I was going to feed myself.

Speaking with her mouth still partially full, Amy said, “Okay, so this is going to sound really weird, but I think it might actually work. Wanna hear it?”

“Super weird is my entire life now, try me,” I said dryly.

Victoria snorted into her cup.

“Don’t laugh. Morgan should try her…” She gestured at her hair, then at my head. “...Your uh, tentacles.”

“...My fucking what?”

“Your head,” Victoria said, stepping in smoothly. “You don’t have hair anymore. It’s like… aqua-blue tentacles. They’re kind of arranged like dreadlocks, actually. Honestly? They look cool.”

I blinked. “Sure. Why not. Head tentacles. That tracks.”

Although… It did make sense. My “hair” had been moving on its own lately when I used my power. I thought it was nerves. Or adrenaline. Not… this.

Amy shoveled another bite and spoke around it again. “Tentacles are actually great for fine motor control. Especially in smart species, like octopi. There’s research on them solving puzzles, opening jars, that kind of thing. I saw a great documentary.”

I stared at her. For such a mousy girl, she could eat.

I pressed my huge palms to the floor and slowly scooted myself closer to the counter. Victoria made a move to help, but I shook my head. I wanted to do this on my own.

Slow. Methodical. Careful.

Feeling like it was an inch at a time, I made it to the counter without breaking or damaging anything.

Here goes nothing.

I tried to wriggle my hair towards the counter. It squirmed around a little, but not in a useful direction. I tried to isolate the feeling of just a single tentacle, but it wasn’t any use; there were dozens, maybe a hundred of them, all justling and brushing against each other and me. Trying to single one out was like trying to find a needle in a haystack made of snakes.

“It’s not working,” I said, frustration creeping into my tone. “When I try to move just one or pick it out from the bunch, either nothing happens or it just makes my head hurt.”

Victoria perked up: “Okay, wait. I might know this one. When I started flying, I had the same kind of brain fog when I tried to break it into steps. It’s not like flapping wings, or pushing off. It’s more like… willing it? Like imagining the motion and letting your body–or power–handle the rest.”

Worth a shot.

I pictured lifting a single plastic fork off the counter. I didn’t try to move a tentacle, I just imagined the result I wanted.

A bright aqua strand uncoiled from my head, slithered over the counter, and hooked under the fork. It wrapped around the handle two or three times and lifted it smoothly.

“Holy shit!” I blurted. Actual joy running through me, for the first time today.

I tried again, another fork, with a second tentacle. Nailed it. Then I mimed scooping something up and bringing it to my mouth. Easy. Smooth. I slid the fork between my lips and pulled it back out like I was eating, just to be sure.

Then I tried something else. I thought about accidentally stabbing myself in the cheek, but didn’t actually want it to happen. My fork tentacles twitched, idle and loose, still holding the forks, but doing nothing else.

“Nickel for your thoughts?” Victoria asked me.

“I was worried that if I just idly thought about stabbing myself in the face, I might actually do it.”

“Oh, yeah. No.” She said with a grin. “I can daydream about flying and not floating off. You have to mean it.”

I looked at the tub of pulled BBQ chicken and frowned. Round container. Snap-on plastic lid. No fingers. No fingernails. My tentacles were soft, and I didn’t want to crush it by mistake.

Could I maybe try and tweak one? Give it a tip?

I focused, picturing one hair-tentacle reshaping: just the tip, forming a dull claw. I pushed with my power, expecting resistance. But it came naturally. Instinctive. Easier than ever before. Was it because I was in this body? One built for change? Or was it me?

Wrapping one tentacle around the tub without squeezing it too hard, just enough until I felt it slightly deform, I took my claw-tipped tentacle and popped the lid off.

Here goes nothing.

I didn’t want to spill it. Not just because the Dallons had bought it for me, but because I was ravenous. I brought the container up toward my face.

The smell hit my senses like a truck. Smoky, sweet, tangy, intense. It was like tasting color, or hearing texture. I could smell so much more now, layers and details I’d never had before.

I dug in. Tentacle, fork, chicken: mouth.

Amy and Victoria had stopped eating, watching me like it was the judging panel on a cooking show. They clapped. I rolled my eyes, but honestly? I didn’t care. This was stupid, and weird, and surreal.

But it was also really good chicken.

After the first bite, everything shifted. The world felt less sharp and less threatening. I wasn’t some monstrous alien creature devouring food with her hair. I was just Morgan, having excellent takeout with friends.

We ate. We talked about nothing. Picked at side dishes and swapped bites. Less threatening. I calmed down. The weirdness didn’t disappear, but it softened and was edged out by the conversation and comfort.

Amy and Victoria finished their trays, and I absolutely demolished the catering tubs. Four, maybe five pounds of pork, beef, and chicken. Maybe more. I didn’t want to dwell on the numbers; it made me feel inhuman. I just focused on how good it felt to not be starving anymore.

I drank two full two-liters of soda, which was trickier than I expected. The bottles crumpled if I didn’t support them properly. Eventually, I figured out the trick: one tentacle around the neck, a second bracing the base. Drinking with your hair was weird. But it worked. And I was getting the hang of things, little by little.

Popping her last hushpuppy into her mouth and munching on it, Amy chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed and circled back to the landmine we’d left buried.

“Do you want to talk about the female question, or would you rather leave that alone?”

“I–” I hesitated a moment, searching my feelings for any warning signs. The coast seemed clear at the moment. “I think I would like to know.”

She met my eyes and nodded, slow and careful. “You’re not male or female. You’re sexless, but I’m pretty sure I know why.”

Sexless?

I blinked. Not the answer I’d expected. I mean, there wasn’t anything swinging between my legs, but I hadn’t exactly seen anything feminine down there, either. From what I could tell, I looked… neutral. Flat. My chest and abdomen were layered in robust muscle, like an athlete’s, not a model’s. No breasts. No nipples. Just… blank. “You think there’s a reason for that?” I asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Amy hesitated, studying my face. “I don’t want to scare you-”

I steeled myself for whatever bomb she was going to drop on me and told her, “No, go on. I think I’m over most of the freakout, and now that I’ve cried and eaten, my curiosity is stirring.”

She gave me a little smile. “Okay. So. You know how I said your biology isn’t human? That’s still true. But that’s not the whole picture. It’s really not human. It’s something else entirely.”

She paused, trying to phrase things right before speaking.

“I think part of the reason I got so excited earlier, when you were changing? Is because your power is a lot like mine.”

I rolled that around in my head for a moment. “How so? You’re a bio-kinetic, I’m a changer. Aren’t those very different things?”

“Don’t get too hung up on PRT labels,” Victoria chimed in, pushing up from her seat and starting to clean the table. “Those classifications are mostly for field ops and public safety, you know? They’re based on how to respond to a power, and not on how it actually works.”

“Right, right,” I said.

“What I was going to say is, your changer power changes your biology and chemistry when you use it,” Amy continued. “That’s actually a lot like how I heal people. I’m not using a healing beam or a magic zap or anything. I’m giving their body instructions, rewriting, repairing, or changing. I work with biomass. And you do too. Except in your case, your core seems to be supplying most of it.”

My core.

Not something I liked to think about, but she wasn’t wrong.

I’d known it was there. It had formed not long after my trigger, during the testing phase, when I joined the PRT. A hard, spherical mass tucked deep in my chest. Made of stuff nobody could identify. They said it was likely incredibly durable, based on imaging, but it didn’t do anything. I couldn’t really feel it, not unless I used my power. Which… hadn’t been often.

I was pulled back into the conversation when Amy spoke up again: “We got a bit off-topic, but there was something I wanted to tell you I think is important.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Do you know what a chimera is?” Amy asked me.

The word sparked something, faint but familiar. “You mean the mythological goat snake thing?” I asked.

“Sort of, but not exactly what I mean,” Amy said, tilting her head to ponder a moment.

“You mean the scientific version,” Victoria said from the sink, rinsing out the cups we’d used.

“Yeah!” Amy said, bringing a fist down on an open palm. “Exactly. That’s what I was getting at.”

Victoria glanced over her shoulder at me: “In biology, it’s when different species are fused together into one organism. Like those fruit trees that grow five types of apples, or how some jellyfish are actually colonies of multiple animals working together.”

“Amy, did you stick extra arms on me when I was asleep?” I asked, half-joking. Her expression went weird.

“No,” she said quickly. “I didn’t use my power on you at all. Just the perception part, nothing invasive.” Her voice was a little stiff, a little too defensive.

“I was kidding,” I said, softening. “I didn’t think you did. Just… trying to lighten the mood.” I shifted. “So what does this chimera talk have to do with me?”

Amy relaxed a little. “Think of your body like a jigsaw puzzle. But not a normal one. Every piece is precision cut, engineered to fit not just together, but better together. Like, each system enhances the ones it’s linked with. It’s seamless. Like you were designed from the ground up to work this way.”

Victoria finished rinsing out the last cup, then moved them to the drying rack and wiped her hands. I looked down at my arms again, at the way they joined my shoulders. No seams. No stitches. Nothing crude or unnatural.

I wasn’t Frankenstein’s monster creature, at least. Small blessings.

Amy continued, quieter now. “Your power is really incredible, Morgan. I mean it. I don’t think I could do what you’ve done, even if I tried. I could… maybe do something similar, sort of, but nothing on this scale. Some of the biology is so complex that I don’t fully understand. There’s parts I can’t map.”

Victoria crossed the room and leaned casually beside Amy. She tilted her head, giving her sister a curious look. "Wait, you could? I didn’t know you could do things other than healing people. That’s really cool.”

Amy flushed. “Y-yeah.”

“Could you make a half-dog, half-cat to put an end to the eternal debate?” Victoria asked, teasing.

“Ack, Vicky!” Amy squeaked, her blush deepening. Victoria poked her in the side several times, and Amy relented, laughing: “...Yeah, probably.”

Something was nagging me in the back of my head, and as they were teasing and joking around, it finally surfaced: “You know, I think Dragon told me something very similar to what you’re saying, Amy.”

That shut them up fast. Both Amy and Victoria both froze and looked at me.

“Dude,” Victoria said, blinking. “You know freaking Dragon!?”

“What?” I asked.

“How has this never come up before now?” she demanded, somewhere between outraged and gleeful. “Have you been sitting on any other world-shattering bombshells? You been secretly dating Alexandria, too?”

I expected that would have gotten me into a furious blush normally. I didn’t feel it on my face, though. Maybe my new skin didn’t do that.

Let’s not even go there. I don’t know what dreams I’m allowed to have.

“Oh, um. Sorry?” I offered weakly. “I just met her a few days ago after the ABB thing, my PRT doctor brought her in as a consultant. She was driving around a medical drone or robot. We’ve texted a few times since.”

“Wow,” Amy breathed.

Victoria crossed her arms over her chest: “And you’ve got her phone number. You text. No big deal for Morgan. Going to go get ice cream with Legend this weekend?”

“Oh my god, stop!” I groaned. ”ANYWAYS…” I tried to get back to my point before she teased me any further.

“Dragon checked out these blue patches of skin I had after I got shot. She said they were really complex. Something about how they could study it to develop new body armor tech. She kinda went tinker mode on me, you know how they get.”

I paused, thinking back. “She called it a… meta-material.”

“What’s she like?” Amy asked softly.

“Really nice,” I said. “Smart, obviously. Like, scary smart. But she’s really kind, too? I don’t know, just super compassionate?”

Vicky groaned out loud and threw her hands up in the air. “Great. She’s brilliant and warm. I bet she also bakes cookies and funds orphanages.”

She’s teasing, of course. But there’s something in her voice. A hint of an edge beneath the laugh. Is she jealous? Or maybe just annoyed I hadn’t told her?

I thought back to Melody pushing me to ask Victoria out. But… not now.

My eyes dropped down to my arms. My body. Claws. Tail. Wings.

Not like this.

Amy moved closer to me, close enough that she could reach out and touch me if she wanted. “Do you want me to show those control tricks I mentioned? There are these exercises that they use in rehab. Nerve damage prosthetics training, stuff like that. I think it might help…”

Chapter Text

The next few days blurred past faster than I expected.

I attended classes online with my laptop for obvious reasons. I was effectively grounded on the first floor of my apartment with the shades down and curtains drawn. I was pretty sure I could crawl out the front or back door without breaking anything, but that presented a much bigger problem: being a giant blue sea creature-bug-tentacle-lizard thing running around Brockton Bay. I knew I’d have to face that reality sooner or later, but for now, I was putting it off while I tried to decide just how exactly I was going to go about doing it.

I had a lot of free time I wasn’t at all used to having all of a sudden when I wasn’t in classes. The boredom was pretty bad at times, but I didn’t feel like it ever got too far out of my grasp. I was stuck more or less in place and reliant on others for essentials. Right now, things were very tightly under wraps, with Victoria and Amy helping to bring over food, which I was going through at a staggering pace, and other odds and ends that were easy for me to interact with. I was for sure starting to get cabin fever pretty badly, though.

With so much unexpected free time, I kept myself busy in a few ways. Most of it was spent getting to know my body: learning how to move, how to control my new limbs, and how to avoid breaking things by accident. I ran experiments with my changer power, testing what I could shift and what limits I had. And when I wasn’t focused on that, I was catching up with people. My phone had exploded with messages since my parting with the PRT. Over a hundred unread texts from my old teammates in the Wards, a few members of the Protectorate, and even Dragon.

The reactions from my fellow Wards were a bit mixed but generally supportive of me. Missy was mad at the PRT about how things went. I didn’t want to tell her the full, brutal truth of what Armsmaster had said to me. Carlos was sad to see me go, said he was going to miss his sparring partner, and that the team just wouldn’t be the same without me. Dennis cracked jokes to try and lighten things up, and I appreciated that. Sarcastic, mostly. But he meant well. Chris offered to make me some stuff for flying solo very much under the table, and I told him I’d sincerely think about it. Dean gave me a sorta canned response, wishing me luck. Sophia had sent only a single message: Told you.

That you did, Sophia. I should have listened sooner, but I doubt it would have changed the result.

Experimenting with my ability to change myself was an interesting experience. I felt a bit less inhibited by my prior hangups. I already looked like a monster in my mind. What difference did it make if the end of one of my hair tentacles had a claw or spike on it? Modifying myself was easier. I could get what I needed, where and how I wanted it, no struggle. I wasn’t sure if it was my growing confidence, a natural improvement in my control, or something else entirely. I could change fairly minor things, seemingly up to a certain percentage of my mass or volume–I wasn’t certain on that–but I wasn’t having any luck shifting my entire self.

The idea of being stuck like this forever… that was a source of real, existential dread. But one thing kept that fear at bay. Each day, I had been testing my ability to shift back to human. Not only was I getting better at it, but I could push further each time.

Monday, I managed just my forearms down. Normal skin, hair, nails. On Tuesday, I managed my head, hair, and face, which looked absolutely ghastly on my massive blue body. By Wednesday, I could shift both lower arms, legs, face, and even part of my torso.

I kept feeling like there was a limit or something in my head, though. I could make parts of my body look normal, but I was still big, and I couldn’t get rid of the extra stuff I’d grown, like the big arms, wings, or tail. My mass was more or less the same, and while things had been promising, I had hit a sort of roadblock. I also couldn’t hold the changes I had been making.

Holding those changes kept my power active. For the first few hours, I was fine. But then a fatigue would creep in, building until it became impossible to ignore. Testing for it specifically on Wednesday, I found that around six hours was when it started getting sorta bothersome, and by the end of the school day, when I had been using my human-shifted lower arms, I was feeling it pretty strongly. Letting go, returning to my full form? It eased the pressure. Let me rest. Recover.

I had never pushed this hard with training my power when I was still Phoenix Strike. I hadn’t dared.

Thursday morning I broke through. A huge, huge breakthrough. I woke up feeling like that thing in my head was gone, so I tried to see if I could push for a full change. Sitting cross-legged on my kitchen floor, I closed my eyes and really pictured being the me I knew the best and drawing on my power. I felt the strangest sensation, a tugging sensation deep in my chest. The floor shifted under me as something moved–my tail and my wings rustling as they slid across the floor. I felt like five, maybe ten minutes had passed. At the end, I was grinning ear to ear. Eyes still closed. I could tell.

The kitchen floor was cold against my bare legs and ass. Hair tickled my upper back. My hands, smooth and clawless, rested on my thighs. Opened my eyes and looked down. Breasts, nipples stiff with cold. Creamy skin. Blonde hair. Hands. Feet. Nails. Elation surged through me, and I let out a shout: “YES!” It sounded like me to my ears. I got up, testing my weight and strength, hopping up and down on the floor, bare-assed naked. I was me, but I wanted to be sure.

I sprinted up the stairs, into the bathroom, and inspected every inch. Head to toe, using both my wall and hand mirrors. I was perfect, or should I say: perfectly imperfect Morgan. I still had a couple of birthmark freckles on the back of my hands. I had eyebrows that were just a bit too thick by my estimation. I left the bathroom, peeked at the clock next to my bed, then jumped into the shower.

Holy shit, I have missed this.

I was elated, grinning nonstop. But even that high couldn’t drown out the nagging thoughts. Even though I was back to being me, I felt like things were sort of off, oddly enough. It wasn’t just smell and sounds that felt dulled. My vision, god, my vision was completely different. Blurry, fuzzy, like I’d gone from high-definition back to an old TV. When I was stuck in my other form, I could read a snack bag’s ingredient list from twenty feet away. Now? I couldn’t make out the fine print on the shampoo bottle on the shelf in my shower. It was disorienting, and I hated it. I felt smaller, sure. But the world felt smaller, too. That I hadn’t expected.

I could also feel my power was active in the back of my mind, the same way it had been when I’d been experimenting over the past few days. I had a strong suspicion I wouldn’t be able to stay like this forever–and that sucked–but it was a problem for later. Something to test. Something to understand. Maybe my control would keep improving the more I used it.

For now, I was ecstatic.

Towling off, I tossed on some underwear, athletic shorts, and a sweatshirt, and headed back downstairs to get ready to go to virtual classes. I sat on my couch instead of the floor for the first time in days, kicked my legs out across the cushions, wiggled my toes, and logged on with my laptop.

The school day flew by. I had the option to attend classes live, like I was doing now, or use the self-paced interactive system for the day’s material and turn in assignments digitally. Our school’s online system was honestly a blessing. And because I had been a Ward, I was allowed to attend with very little restrictions on my schedule and attendance, provided I was logging my hours and getting my work and projects done on time.

When the school day ended at two, I leaned back into the armrest and stretched with a yawn. I had gotten up a few times throughout the day, during lunch, I grabbed a sports drink and made a normal-sized meal. That seemed to suit me just fine. I hit the restroom as well, which was something I seemingly didn’t need to have to do at all in my other form.

Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure that body even had the equipment for waste disposal.

My life had gotten weird when I triggered. This was just the latest flavor of strange, and on a much larger scale than before.

As the hours ticked by, I felt that familiar pressure slowly building behind my eyes. But it wasn’t any worse than when I was just changing my limbs or head. That was a good sign. I checked the clock. It had been about six and a half hours since I’d shifted. The pressure was there, but faint. I figured I had a few more hours left in the tank.

And I really wanted to get the hell out of this apartment.

There were also things I needed to do around here. Basic stuff I hadn’t been able to handle in days, thanks to my bulk and the limitations of being stuck in one place.

Heading upstairs, I grabbed my toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, and a bunch of toiletries and stuffed them in a makeshift XL travel bag. I hauled everything downstairs and set it on my kitchen countertop next to the sink. If I was going to be stuck downstairs again, I was going to make the best of it.

I also grabbed my bedside alarm clock and plugged it into a wall socket in my living room, setting it on the carpet next to the wall where the living room and kitchen met. Then I headed back upstairs and dug through my closet, looking for something, anything, that wasn’t “lounging around the house” wear.

That’s when my phone started ringing.

I pulled it out and checked the screen. Local number. Not one I recognized.

I answered and pinched the phone between my shoulder and ear so I could keep rummaging with both hands.

“Hello? Ms. Rivera?” It was a woman’s voice, vaguely familiar but not one I recognized off the top of my head.

Miss Rivera? Was this the school? A doctor’s office?

“Yes, that’s me. Who’s calling?” I kept my voice purposefully cheerful.

“It’s Taylor. Hebert? You gave me your card a couple of weeks ago?”

Oh! She still sounds uncertain, but I remember that. She’d been a little awkward when we met.

Honestly, I was glad to hear from her. After a few days with no call, I’d figured she either tossed my number or lost it.

“Hey!” I said, and this time it wasn’t forced. “I’m glad you called. I thought you’d lost my number. And please, no Miss. It’s just Morgan.”

There was a moment of silence from the other end before she spoke: “No, just been busy dealing with… things.” You and me both.

“Did you- Are- Can you talk?” I remembered how I’d pegged her during the tour. Bad social anxiety.

Hm. I did want to get out. Maybe…

“Taylor, you sort of caught me right in the middle of getting dressed–”

I flipped the phone between my ears to hear her saying: “...if you’re busy–”

“Wait! I mean literally. I have my hands full of clothing.” I laughed a little. “I do want to talk! I was just about to head out. I’ve been going stir-crazy. Want to get a coffee or something? My treat. No pressure.”

The line went quiet for a moment. Then: “Where?” “You go to Winslow, right? Are you on the north side of the city?”

“Yeah. South of the Docks, west of the Boardwalk.”

Older neighborhoods, I thought. Some are a little rough, but not terrible. And not too far from me either.

“Oh, hey, that’s actually pretty close! Nice. You know the coffee shop with the bookstore in it? Right next to the good pizza place?”

“Yeah,” she said. Then, almost like a confession: “I like that place. You can grab a book and read upstairs.”

“I know, right? Love it there. Cool. See you there in uhh… twenty or thirty minutes? I think I’m a little closer, I’ll just walk over after I get changed.”

She came back with a “Sure,” and this time there wasn’t a pause or hesitation in her voice.

“Awesome,” I said, grinning. “See you soon!”

I decided on some high-waisted athletic leggings, loud sneakers, a crop top, and a hoodie. Grabbing my phone, wallet, and keys, I was out the door in no time at all.

It was a beautiful day outside. Sunny and bright, the kind of early spring weather that still had a nip of cool in the air, but in a way that felt refreshing rather than cold.

As I walked, my mind drifted. I really wanted to go back to school in person. I missed seeing my friends face-to-face. There was risk, of course. What if something went wrong? What if I slipped up, and lost my grip on the form? Worst-case scenario, I figured I could fake an emergency call and duck out. Teachers were usually understanding if you gave them something to work with. And it wasn’t like the PRT had updated my school about my new status. Not with graduation just over a month away.

The coffee shop was warm and welcoming as I stepped inside. The smell of freshly brewed beans and baking pastries hit me in the face like a long-overdue hug. God, I wanted a cup of coffee. I’d been downing water by the gallon all week, hydrating like a champ. But now craving something rich, with a little bite.

I wasn’t picky when it came to drinks. Water was fine, great even. But I didn’t have a coffee maker at home, and I’d definitely been feeling it.

Taylor walked in a few minutes later, a little flushed and lightly sweaty. She looked like she might’ve jogged part of the way.

I waved and crossed over to meet her, smiling.

We got into line at the front counter, and I asked her: “Hey! Did you run here? You didn’t have to do that!”

She took a couple of deep breaths and nodded. “Yeah, but I wanted to. I’ve been trying to work on my fitness. Running most days, so this counts as my afternoon run.”

“Oh, nice! I’m a–” The person in front of us finished their order, and I stepped up. “I’ll have a tall iced mocha, no toppings…” I glanced over at Taylor.

“Is iced good? I’ve never tried cold coffee like that before.” I nodded emphatically and told her, “Swear by it. You can break into cold brew if you’re feeling brave, but iced is a solid gateway drink.”

She turned to the barista. “I’ll try the same thing she’s having.”

I eyed the glass display case with goodies in it, but decided against it. I asked Taylor, “You want anything to go with it? Their baked goods here are on point.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m actually trying to lose a little weight.”

I gave her a very skeptical look, then swiped my card. She caught it and murmured, “Tell you later,” just a little quieter.

We moved down the counter to the pickup area, and I picked up where I’d left off.

“I’m a gym rat, honestly. Cardio, like that’s great, but I’ve really gotten into strength training the last couple of years.”

“It shows,” she said.

I grinned. “Thanks.” We picked up our drinks and made our way upstairs to the quieter seating area. It was early afternoon, and the space was mostly empty—just a few scattered patrons and a pair of students sharing a laptop—so we had our pick of cozy corners. We settled into one tucked away near a window, half-shaded by a hanging plant.

I peeled off my hoodie, pulled an ottoman over, and sank into a plush armchair, throwing my legs up comfortably. Taylor took the matching chair opposite mine, angled conversationally across a little round table. She held her coffee in her hands. She glanced down at my bare midriff and let out a faint, frustrated huff.

I stuck out my tongue at her.

“Whenever I gain weight, it’s always right here.” She poked herself lightly in the stomach. “Nowhere else. Drives me crazy.”

“Oh, I feel you. Is your family really tall and lanky, too?”

She nodded, taking a cautious sip of her iced mocha. Then another, faster one. Her face lit up just a little.

I grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Good, right?”

She gave a small, enthusiastic nod, curls bouncing. “This is really good.”

I took a sip of my own and glanced at her again. The dark, loose layers she wore were nearly identical to what she’d had on during the school tour. Hiding, I suspected. I tilted my head, curious.

“You ever go to the gym?”

She shook her head. “No. Only when we have to, for school.” Her tone was apologetic, like she thought that might earn judgment.

I drummed my fingers on my spandex-clad thigh, thinking how best to phrase what I wanted to say. Girls our age, hell, girls of any age, got handed a hundred kinds of body shame to carry around. I’d seen it with my friends. I’d felt it myself. And now, I was juggling an entirely different kind of body image crisis on a whole other scale.

So I eased into it.

“You’ve probably got what’s called an ectomorphic body type. Tall, slim, fast metabolism, trouble putting on weight, especially muscle. Sound about right?”

She furrowed her brow slightly, unsure. “Yeah… I guess?”

“There are ways to kind of hack that. Cardio helps, sure. But it also trains your body to be more efficient. So you’ll lose weight, but you might also lose shape in places you don’t want to.”

She frowned down at her coffee and adjusted her grip on the cup.

“I don’t want to make assumptions about your goals,” I said, “but if you ever wanted, I could show you some training that helps with weight loss and adds lean muscle. The best part of strength training? You get to decide where you want to put it.”

I offered her a smile, trying for supportive, not pushy.

Taylor snorted. “Sounds like a lot of effort for a slightly different kind of scrawny.”

But she didn’t shut it down.

“I used to have a way slimmer build,” I told her. “Played soccer pretty seriously. You’ve gotta be in ridiculous cardio shape if you want to compete. I was. Then I got into a car accident and messed up my knee. And knees? They take forever to heal. I didn’t want to stop training, so I pivoted into strength work instead. That was… two years ago now. I still work out more than most people, but honestly? I’m really happy with where it’s taken me.”

She looked up from her drink and met my eyes. Her expression was sharp now, attentive. “How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen,” I said.

She tapped her plastic cup. “Wait, seriously? Eighteen? I figured you were older.” She squinted. “And you work for the PRT? What, are you on some fast-track program?”

I took a deep breath and let it out in a puff of air. “Worked. Past tense. I got let go less than a week ago.”

Her eyes went wide. “Really? But… you were good at your job. Like, really good. You knew that place backward and forward.”

Now it was my turn to contemplate my coffee. “Yeah. I thought I was doing well, but… I guess not. It was a shock for me too.” I took a long sip, letting the bitter flavor ground me. “I’m still figuring out how I feel about it. Trying to decide what comes next.”

I looked up at her and gave her a wry grin. “You looking for a personal trainer? I offer rock-bottom prices.” I snickered at my bad joke. “Joking aside, I have a new gym membership right around the block from here. I can give you an unlimited guest pass. Most gyms love it when you bring someone along. Makes people more likely to stick with it.”

I got an “I don’t know, maybe,” from the girl, and I considered it an improvement. I could tell I was making inroads, but she was twitchy. Still guarded, still half-ready to bolt. I’d have to handle her carefully if I wanted to keep that momentum.

So I pivoted. “I’ve been talking your ear off. What was it you wanted to ask me?”

Her fingers tightened around her cup. “Is it… Okay if I ask you about PRT stuff?”

I waved the idea off like it was no big deal. “Not at all. I’ll keep it honest, and I’ll try not to let my personal feelings color things too much. I’m an open book. Except the stuff I legally can’t talk about, of course.”

She gave a ghost of a smile at that.

“How did you get a job over there in the first place?”

That one I’d have to bend the truth on. But I could stick pretty close to it.

“I actually met one of the Wards a while back. We hit it off, became friends. Through him, I learned about some of the programs they don’t really advertise: invite-only internships, or stuff that needs a connection to get in. We’re still friends, which is nice. I need to hang out with him again soon, actually. Things have been… busy.”

Taylor perked up a bit at the mention of a superhero, which was expected. People ate that stuff up. The Protectorate and Wards weren’t just part of the system; they were the face of it.

“Who was it? Or is it?”

No harm in sharing the alias, I figured.

“Aegis. He’s a good guy, and I help him with training stuff sometimes.”

Her eyes went wide. “Aegis? No way. Seriously?”

I nodded.

“Yes, really, and I wouldn’t lie to you about something like that.” I took a sip of my drink before continuing. “The thing most people don’t get about parahumans is that at the end of the day, they’re just people. People in masks. Costumes. And yeah, some of them are incredible, but they’re also just… human. People love to idolize them, to put them on pedestals. Sometimes it’s flattering, but mostly?" I made a face.

“I think it messes with their heads. Badly.”

“Like in the case of villains?”

I pursed my lips and rocked my head from side to side as I weighed my words. “Villains are tricky. Sure, there are narcissists, ego cases, full-blown psychopaths. But there are also people who got labeled that way because of where they came from. Their circumstances. Misunderstandings. Bad information. Some folks figure it out eventually. Some get arrested and get help. They’re the ones who might make it back across the line. Might even join the good guys, if someone gives them a chance.”

Taylor tilted her cup and took another sip. “You always seem really well-informed about this stuff.” “Well, I might be a jock, but I try not to be a dumb jock. I think about this stuff a lot. Partly from working at the PRT, but also from spending time around the Wards.” I nibbled my lower lip, eyes drifting downward. “I was looking forward to a career there. I really did love it.” “The jock thing being how you know Sophia?” Taylor asked. “Do you know her very well?” I didn’t look up, still a bit lost in my previous train of thought. “Yeah, I mentioned that we met through track. I don’t know her super well, mostly because she’s hard to get to know. Frankly, she’s super rude and more than a little obnoxious.”

A pause.

“Do you ever meet or hang out with her outside school?”

I glanced over at Taylor. Her expression was oddly distant, introspective, almost. The question caught me off guard, not because it was inappropriate, but because something about it felt... off. She seemed genuinely interested, but also a little too careful. But then again, Taylor was always a bit hard to read.

“God, no,” I said, making a face. “Are you kidding? I try not to talk shit about people, even the shitty ones, but no. We do not get along. I can’t imagine being friends with her unless she had, like, a split personality or something.” I snorted.

Still… her expression hadn’t changed.

Something was definitely up here. Sophia rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, sure, but this wasn’t just annoyance. There was something heavier behind Taylor’s questions.

I leaned forward slightly, curiosity piqued.

“What about you?” I asked. “I mean, I know she’s in your class, but why do you care so much? She tends to throw shade at random people. You two don’t get along?”

Taylor’s voice was quiet. Not whisper-quiet, but… subdued. Like she wasn’t entirely speaking to me.

“I hate her.”

The words just sat there, stark and bare. She looked up at me, almost startled that she’d said it out loud, and then looked away quickly, like she regretted it immediately.

Ah. Sore spot.

Best not to press it. Time for a subject change.

I shooed a fly away and swirled my drink around, the ice clinking together in the disposable cup. I went back to the root of the discussion we’d had so far.

“You strike me as someone who has quite an interest in parahumans, but I don’t get the fangirl vibe. Are you into the scientific or academic side of things, or maybe you were thinking of pursuing a degree in Parahuman Studies and trying to get a job with the PRT?”

Some of the tension eased out of Taylor’s posture. She shrugged slightly.

“You’re right, I only had sort of a passing interest in parahumans until a few years ago. I’ve been doing some reading and getting into things a bit more this year. I’m only a sophomore, but I don’t really like school. I don’t want to think about college; getting through the next two years is going to be hard enough.”

I tilted my head slightly. “If you don’t mind me asking, what changed?” I offered her a little smile. “I did kind of the same thing, honestly. Got way more into it all at once. And you’re smart, Taylor. You’ve got options, and they don’t have to be school-shaped.”

She glanced away.

“I dunno. Just thinking about the future, I guess.” Her voice dipped, lost a little of its steadiness. “Some things changed in my life…”

Her gaze dropped again. Her shoulders shifted, subtle but telling—like she was weighing whether she wanted to say more or let the silence swallow it.

Oh.

It was like a quiet pressure shift in the air between us.

That tone. That turn of phrase. That look. The way your whole world starts pivoting around something you can’t explain to anyone.

She’s probably a parahuman.

The signs were there. The change in interest. The careful wording. The tension that never quite left her eyes.

Then she looked up again.

“...What about you?” she asked. “What got you interested?”

I hesitated.

Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong.

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I get that. Things change. You get thrown off track.” I let a breath escape. “I had kind of a similar story. Messed up my leg, sports scholarship, that was supposed to be my future. Then boom, it wasn’t.”

I shrugged. “Spent more time with my sister. Played a lot of video games. Kept in touch with Aegis. And somewhere along the line, it hit me: maybe this parahuman thing was something I could actually do. I got invested, landed the internship, and went all in.”

Taylor nodded along, and I felt something subtle shift between us. A little more connection. A little more understanding.

I slurped the last of my coffee, the loud rattle of empty ice echoing from the cup. We ended up talking for about an hour. Mostly more PRT stuff, her asking questions, me answering as best I could. She was smart. Attentive. Reserved, yeah, but a good conversationalist. Thoughtful.

Eventually, I felt a headache blooming behind my eyes, and she said she had to head home before her dad got back from work. We called it there.

I told her we should keep in touch. She agreed.

I nagged her one last time about hitting the gym with me, which earned me an eye roll and got her a grin. On the walk home, I stopped to pick up a few odds and ends. Some toiletries. A couple of bags of bulk groceries. The pressure in my head was building fast now, dull and insistent, and I was pretty sure I knew what was behind the headache.

Back at my apartment, I knocked out the last few things I needed to do: groceries away, water jug filled, nest of blankets and pillows assembled on the kitchen floor. I stripped down to bare skin. The floor was cold beneath me.

I took a deep breath.

Then I let go of the form.

I shifted back, and it was a bit faster and more uncomfortable than when I’d shifted that morning. There were pops, snaps, and crunches. A fair few groans. Within a few minutes, I was back to being gigantic, blue, and having far too many limbs once again. The pressure in my skull evaporated.

But something like fatigue lingered in its place. Deep and strange and not entirely physical.

Still, I had planning to do. Research. Homework. Texts to catch up on, people to check in with. I settled in for the night and started ticking things off the list. Tomorrow, if the shift held, I was going to Arcadia in person for the first time in a week. First period through final bell.

If it all went to plan, I’d be at the gym before sunrise.

The math added up. Barely. I’d just need to manage my time, listen to my body, and not push too hard.

I couldn’t wait.

Chapter Text

I woke up first thing Friday morning, head resting on a wad of blankets and pillows from the makeshift bed I’d made last night. The blankets were warm under me, and the hard floor really wasn’t as uncomfortable as I would have expected. I think that where my body was cradled by my armor plating made it naturally very supportive and ergonomic. I was feeling pretty refreshed, and with the assistance of my oddly-placed alarm clock, I was up at the early hour I wanted to be.

It was the first day of April, and I had a whole lot of things I wanted to get done today. Provided my power was going to be cooperative, and allow me to do what I wanted to do. But, first things first: I needed to do a temperature check of the ocean in my head, which was the sensation of my power. I entered the water fully, and it was warm and calm. I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind. I wanted an accurate assessment based on my growing understanding of things. A fuck up here could be pretty bad.

The mental fatigue sensation from late yesterday afternoon was gone as far as I could tell. My power was responsive to my poking and prodding. I was gambling a little bit here, but I decided to go for it. I took a few deep breaths and pushed to return to normal Morgan.

My power responded, and I had the same sensation as yesterday morning: a steady internal pull, shifting dimensions, things merging and retracting. The process took a few minutes and wasn’t uncomfortable and noisy like it had been yesterday afternoon. I wonder what might be causing the difference between the two experiences. Opening my eyes, I flipped my hair back with one hand, then clapped once, loudly.

“Let’s get going, back to my busy schedule!”

I whipped up a big protein shake with the assistance of the commercial blender I now owned, and was working on drinking it while getting dressed and packing a gym bag. I didn’t know with the whole shape-shifting thing if training was going to help develop my body at all. However, it was a routine that I desperately wanted and needed back in my life, and I enjoyed it.

I pulled my hair back into a low ponytail and took my shaker bottle and gym bag out the door with me. Jogging to the gym at the boardwalk was a nice little warm-up, and the sun was just starting to rise over the bay. The warmth and life it brought was invigorating. My breath fogged in the cool air, and I was in high spirits once again with this return to normalcy.

Walking into the gym, I wasn’t surprised to see that it was virtually empty inside, with maybe less than half a dozen people scattered throughout. Hitting the gym regularly took dedication; hitting it regularly and at the crack of dawn took an entirely different kind of commitment.

I’d gotten a decent warm-up on my way over, so I peeled off my light jacket, stuffed it into my bag, and headed for the weight racks. One of my loud, aggressive playlists went on as I shoved in my earbuds and slipped into the zone. My numbers were pretty consistent with what I’d been using before: high-end weight, but enough to raise eyebrows or get anyone thinking I was cheating the natural order.

I worked through my sets with a tight focus on form, keeping the reps slow to eliminate momentum and really activate my stabilizers. It felt good. By the time I finished, my veins were popping. I took a few minutes to cool off, stretch, and rehydrate before moving on.

This gym catered to a lot of niches, and I appreciated that. I made my way to the fighter training area: padded mats, a regulation ring, rows of bags. Every surface that could hurt you was taped or cushioned: walls, support columns, benches, and even some of the machines.

Liability insurance must be a real bitch in places like this.

I pulled out my hand wraps, tightening them with practiced motions. Once my fists were secure, I slipped on my fingerless MMA gloves, stretched a little more, and got to work on the heavy bag.

I had energy to burn, and more than a little frustration to vent. Wailing on a heavy bag? Exactly what I needed.

About five minutes in, someone circled around behind the bag at a safe distance and waved to catch my attention. I stepped back and pulled out my earbuds, tossing them over my shoulders.

“Hey, are you new here? Coming here often, or planning on it?”

He was tall, dark-skinned, and had a frame that showed that he wasn’t just here for the music and casual cardio. He wore his hair braided in cornrows and was fairly attractive in a conventional sense. I felt a flicker of irritation at being interrupted during what amounted to a faux therapy session. Especially if this was about to turn into him making a pass.

I kept my tone neutral. No reason to be rude, even if I was annoyed. “Just moved to this part of town. Switched gyms. Still settling into the new place, so I haven’t nailed down a schedule yet, but I try to hit it five or six times a week.”

He gave me a quick once-over, not in a creepy way, just taking stock. “Yeah, it shows. This gym’s solid. Good rates, and it’s quiet in the mornings.”

Ironic, since part of the reason I come early is because I want to work out and not get chatted up.

Then he added, “I couldn’t help but notice…” Here it comes.

“...You’ve got tight form…” He gestured at the heavy bag.

Oh?

“Looks like you know your stuff. Would you ever want to spar sometime? I could probably pick up a few techniques from you.” He pointed over to a bag nearby with his pair of MMA gloves resting on top.

I feel like an asshole now.

Maybe this guy isn’t so bad after all. A spar sounded kind of nice. I was going to need new partners anyway.

I smiled at him and knocked my gloved fists together. “We can do that! I’ll let you know that I’m the firm but fair sort, but I don’t pull punches, either. And no wacky stuff, yeah? I’m here to work out and train.”

He bobbed his head and asked, “Want to do a short feeler session? You can make up your mind if there’s any wackiness.”

I nodded and he moved to turn towards his bag, then thought twice, and turned back to me, extending a hand: “I’m Brian, by the way.”

I took it with a firm grip. He matched it. “Morgan. And… sorry if I came off a little short earlier. I was in the zone. Letting off steam when you got my attention.”

He just nodded, unfazed, and grabbed his gloves. I followed him over to the mats and not the ring.

Interesting choice.

He tightened the gloves and threw a few warm-up punches. Clean, traditional boxing form. I hoped he had more than just that in his toolkit, or the choice of mats over the ring was a weird one.

“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “You were hitting that bag hard enough that two other people moved to get away from the noise.”

He laughed. I blinked. I hadn’t even noticed.

Sorry for the noise, I guess. This is a gym, not a yoga retreat.

We squared up on the mats. I saluted and bowed. He followed suit.

Good. Dojo experience.

I raised one gloved hand and flicked my fingers in a bring it motion, grinning. “No headshots, gloves or not. No dirty tricks. Grapples and mat work are fine, but I really wouldn’t recommend it.”

My grin widened. “And if you pull your punches on some chivalry crap, I’ll make you regret it.”

He returned the grin. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

He advanced, and we got into it.

The first punches were light, testing. I blocked and deflected them easily.

“Quit holding back,” I said, keeping my hands high. “If you want me to get a real read, fight like you mean it.” He rolled his neck and shoulders and nodded. “Alright, alright. I’m coming at you fully, then.”

He came again, this time with real intention. A trio of punches: clean, classic boxing. Then a snap kick and a spinning one. Taekwondo. A quick leg sweep followed, which was textbook Karate.

Mixed bag.

He had strength, reach, and clearly knew how to fight, but his form was inconsistent. Probably had some formal training, maybe tournaments, but nothing cohesive. He wasn’t bad. Just needed structure.

He came in again with a flurry of jabs. I deflected the first, ducked the second, slipped sideways on the third, and pivoted into him. My elbow caught him square in the abdomen. He braced well, and I heard the breath whoosh out of him.

That wasn’t the attack. That was the set-up.

I grabbed his arm with one hand, his thigh with the other, and hauled him up and over my hip. He hit the mat with a solid wham. I followed him down, locking him up with practiced ease into a jiu-jitsu pretzel. He looked stunned for a second, then wriggled, testing for an escape.

Nope.

He barked a deep laugh and slapped the mat.

I let go, popped to my feet, and held a hand out.

He took it, and I hauled him up in one firm yank. He rubbed the back of his head, looking a little sheepish.

“Holy shit, Morgan, you weren’t kidding about the ‘not suggesting’ grapples part, were you?” Brian laughed, brushing off his back. “Also, good god, girl—what do you lift?”

I clasped my hands and bowed. He returned it.

“Often and a lot,” I said, snickering.

“I mean, I could tell you knew your stuff, and I’d love to spar more. I figured we were in different weight classes, but not that different. I’m… pleasantly surprised?” He said it like he meant it.

My phone buzzed in my bag. I glanced at the clock.

Time flies. I needed to book it to school.

I started unwrapping my hands. “Yeah, gotta go. Got class, and it’s a bit of a hike. But cardio, you know? Two birds.”

He followed at a casual pace as I packed up. “You gonna be around more?”

I stuffed my gloves and wraps into my bag and guzzled down some water from my bottle. “That’s the plan,” I said, slinging my bag over one shoulder. “Usually in by six-thirty most mornings. Catch you around?”

“Bet on it. Already looking forward to it. You need to show me that throw.”

I winked at him, turned, and headed out. On my way past the mirrors, I caught a glimpse of myself.

Still me. For now.

I looked… good. Healthy. Strong.

But I knew how fragile it all was. Just under the surface: something blue, wild, and wrong.

I forced the thought down.

No time for that train of thought right now.

I got to Arcadia, changed, and was out front of my first-period door before class started. I had my headphones in, bobbing my head along to a bass-laden track, when Melody rounded the corner.

Her eyes widened, and then she was sprinting toward me, pulling me into a fierce hug. I froze, stunned, and choked up a little.

She pulled back. I tugged my earbuds free.

“Where have you been!?” she demanded.

I wish I could tell you even half of it, Mel. I really do. But right now, I’m keeping my hands tight to my chest until I figure out what I’m even holding.

“I’ve been a wreck,” I said. “Everything that happened with the PRT just… broke something in me, Mel. I didn’t want you to see me falling apart. I took some time. I’ve been doing classes remotely, so I could cry in peace without disrupting a lecture.”

She clenched her jaw. I saw her lower lip tremble. I gave her a small, apologetic smile.

Then she poked me in the upper boob. Hard. With one finger.

“Melody—ow!” I protested. “I’m still furious at you,” she growled, jabbing again. “You’re lying. Or hiding something. Because the Morgan I know wouldn’t just vanish. She wouldn’t dump her sister in the trash like she’s afraid she might get tailed home one night. She’d know if someone was following her. She’d kick their asses.”

“God, quit it, Mel!” I rubbed my chest, glancing down the hall. “You know I can’t—” She waved that off with a sharp shake of her head. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now. I’m just glad you’re okay, and here, and…better. Sort of.” She stepped back. “But you’re still on the shit list until you get your head out of your ass.”

I sighed. “You’re right. You deserve to be mad. But if you were that worried, you could’ve called or texted.”

Her cheeks flushed. “I could’ve called? You didn’t say a peep all week! That’s! Morgan, that’s fucked up!”

Her fists clenched tight enough to shake. For a second, I thought she might actually hit me.

Then her shoulders slumped.

“Come on. Let’s get to class. I don’t want to spend all day angry. This isn’t over. You’re not off the hook.”

I held up my hands, palms out. “I’m sorry. I love you. I do. Just… let me keep my head in my ass a little longer while I figure myself out?”

She pursed her lips, then nodded. “Fine.”

We stood there for a second. Not talking. Just breathing in the same air again.

Our teacher came along and unlocked the classroom, and we filed in.

One class turned into two. I passed Dennis in the hall, and we shared a wave. He looked happy to see me.

Come lunchtime, I felt a little twang of anxiety that I normally would have never felt. I got a nice sub and a bottled smoothie from a vending machine, then walked up to my old table.

The Wards table, although nobody else knew that it was what it was, but us. The secret in plain sight.

They were already all sitting there and chatting, along with Amy, Victoria, and Melody. My seat across from Melody was empty. I looked at it, then at my tray, then at the seat again. Do I belong here anymore?

I’m dubiously still Morgan Rivera, but I’m not Phoenix Strike. I’m not a member of the Wards; I’m not good enough to be a Protectorate hero with my ‘limited capabilities.’

Would sitting there just make it weird for them? Remind them I’m not part of the team anymore?

I stood there, caught in the tangle of it all. Staring at an empty chair. I didn’t notice Carlos until he stepped up beside me.

He leaned in and said, just loud enough for me to hear: “Quit being weird. You belong there more than anyone in this school. You’re still our friend. That doesn’t change. We’ve been holding your spot all week.”

My heart flopped in my chest, and I thought I was going to tear up.

I gripped my tray and nodded rapidly. He moved to his seat, and I pulled mine out and sat in it before doubt could creep back into my mind.

Across from me, Victoria and Amy shared a brief, unreadable look. Then Victoria turned toward me with a bright smile. “Morgan! You’re looking… really good! Are you uh… feeling better?”

Amy’s eyes stayed on me. She smiled, warm in a way she rarely was. Amy said, “You look great, Morgan! I love what you’ve done with your hair.” My stomach tightened slightly, but we were interrupted by the rest of the gang saying hello. Dennis spoke up first, saying, “Look who finally left the bunker. You know we actually take attendance here, right?”

Chris lightly smacked him on the arm and said, “Glad you’re back, Morgan. Let me know if you need help catching up on any assignments.”

Pretty sure that was code for ‘that offer’s still on the table.’ I gave him a small nod

Dean wasn’t at the table today, and Carlos caught me looking at his empty spot and explained: “He had a doctor’s appointment that got rescheduled and moved up to this afternoon, so had to take off. You know how it goes. I’m super happy you’re back, though. Hasn’t been the same without you talking trash.” I rolled my eyes and made a mental note of the double-speak. Dean was off doing Wards or PRT-related business. Unless he actually did have a dentist’s appointment get moved or something. Sometimes it was hard to tell what was a smokescreen and what was actually real. We started to tuck into our meals. “How’s the new place treating you? Did you manage to get that spill in the kitchen all cleaned up? No staining?” Victoria asked me. I bobbed my head and wiped my lips with a napkin before responding: “Yeah, it’s coming along. No staining issues at all, I really appreciate the help there. Still picking up random odds and ends that I forget I need, like a blender.”

Melody observed the exchange and gave me the flattest of flat looks afterward. I didn’t need to be a mind reader to know exactly what that was about. She was pissed that Victoria got to see my new place before she did. Amy, the traitor, found her drink suddenly extremely interesting.

Fuck. I can’t get a win or catch a break with her lately. I really need to think of a way to make it up, and soon.

Amy asked me if she could have one of my napkins, and I handed her one. Her fingers touched the back of my hand momentarily and I saw her eyes dilate ever-so-slightly. She took the napkin and thanked me with a shy smile.

God, Amy. You could have just asked. Not that I really mind.

We chatted for a while. I ended up being the center of attention more than I wanted, but I took it in stride. Everyone had questions: why I’d been out of school for four days, what I’d been up to. We avoided the obvious topic of the PRT, keeping the conversation focused on home and personal stuff.

I told them I’d decided to move out, using some of the money I’d earned from my “internship,” and that most of my time lately had been spent settling into the new place and adjusting to living on my own.

There were a few questions about where it was, and I admitted it was near the north end of the Boardwalk District, edging toward the rail yards and dockside neighborhoods. Rougher, sure, but not a bad spot. And cheaper than anything near the boardwalk proper.

Someone floated the idea of throwing a party to celebrate my new independence, and I told them I’d think about it. I meant it. I did want people to visit—especially Melody—but the apartment represented something new. A different part of me. A different me, entirely.

I told them, truthfully, that I didn’t have much furniture yet, or things to do, but I’d give it some real thought.

Even so, one thing was becoming clear: I was going to have to make some very big, and possibly painful, decisions soon—about how much of myself I was willing to show to the people I cared about. I was worried about the danger to my family, deeply so… but Melody had been right to call me out.

On some level, it wasn’t just about them.

It was about me. It wasn’t just about protecting them from danger. It was about protecting myself from what they’d see.

The real heart of the issue was that I didn’t look or feel human when I wasn’t shapeshifted like this. Because, as Amy and Dragon had both made painfully clear, I wasn’t.

Had I died and been reborn? Replaced piece by piece, like a Ship of Theseus, until nothing original remained? I felt different—but also the same—and it was hard to distill that contradiction into words I could share with anyone else.

It was complicated in ways I struggled to explain, even to myself.

I thought about Jessica Yamada. She could probably help me make sense of this, if anyone could. I trusted her implicitly. She took patient confidentiality as seriously as death and taxes. But the PRT? Not so much. I didn’t know how deep they went. Were they reading her files? Were they watching everything I did?

My gut said no. Don’t show them this version of me.

Not yet.

The PRT didn’t exactly have a sparkling record when it came to monstrous capes or Case Fifty-Threes. Maybe there were a few on the payroll, hiding behind the curtain, but I’d asked myself that before. I’d seen how Piggot phrased things—how she’d rather have me in a back office than on the front lines. I didn’t want a custom-built creature-sized cubicle. I wanted to fight. I wanted to matter.

I looked down at my tray: just crumbs and napkins. No answers there.

Call it pride, vanity, or whatever you want. I had a vision of what I wanted my life to be. That vision took a seismic hit when I woke up twice my old size with three times the limbs… and that’s not even counting the tentacles.

But I’m not giving up.

I’ll find a way to make it work.

God damn it, I will.

“Earth to Morgan.” Victoria snapped me out of the reverie I’d been eating while munching the last of my sandwich.

I wiped some dressing off the corner of my mouth and gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry. Lot on my mind. Like… a lot-lot.” “I get that. Just checking in.” She smiled, easy and warm.

“Hey, Victoria?” I ventured.

“Yeah?” “I was thinking… maybe this weekend, we could try out some new techniques? Exercises, training stuff. Somewhere quiet, away from everything for a while?” I kept my tone casual, but I hoped she’d pick up on what I was really asking.

Victoria was smarter than most people gave her credit for. People saw the busty blonde in a skirt and made assumptions. But she got it. She saw people.

“Hmm.” She tapped her fingernail against the tabletop, eyes flicking to the ceiling in thought. “I’ve got a few things on the docket this weekend, but I think I can carve out a couple of hours. Yeah.” I nodded, encouraged. “If it’s later in the day, and your folks are chill with it, you could even stay over at my place. Only if it makes things easier.”

And maybe just a little bit because I want you there.

I could feel Melody’s disapproval from across the table. Still, this was about cape stuff. She had to know that. Training. Control. That had to count for something, right?

“I’ll talk it over with them, and get back to you after school?” Victoria asked. “You bet, I said," with a smile. “Not going to lock in plans, but keep me posted. I could use a bit of cutting-loose time.”

Chapter Text

I made it through the school day without issue. Like yesterday, the pressure in my head had been mounting. Around the eight-hour mark, I started getting a low-end headache. Not terrible.

I got home after school, showered, and followed it up with some deep stretching. Curious about my limits, I decided to keep holding it—my form—while being mindful of time and how I felt. I jotted down notes as I made observations.

I thought back to what Dragon had told me on the Rig.

Was it think like a scientist? Perform experiments? Something like that. Be scientific about it.

I made a mental note to try and reach out to her. From what I understood—and what PHO said—she was kind of a Protectorate member and kind of not, since she was Canadian and a founding member of their version of the Protectorate, the Guild.

The internet was a mixed bag for cape information. Sometimes it was a goldmine of facts at your fingertips, and other times it was full of deliberate misinformation. Or maybe propaganda was the better word. PHO tried to fact-check and cite sources, but even accurate information could be framed in a way that misled people.

I’ll call Amy first. Dragon could wait.

I dialed Amy’s number. She picked up right away.

“Hey, Morgan. Everything okay?”

“Hmm, oh yes, I’m fine. Do you have a minute to talk?” I figured the implication was clear: this wasn’t small talk.

“Yeah, it’s pretty quiet at home. I have to leave soon for the hospital, but I’ve got a few minutes.”

I’d given some thought to how I wanted to approach this. I figured the direct route was best.

“I don’t want to sound confrontational, asking this, but… what was that all about at lunch today?”

There was a pause, so I continued.

“I’m assuming you were taking a look with your power. Checking on how I was doing.” I tried to keep my tone casual. “I don’t mind, honestly. The fact that you care is flattering. I just thought it was weird you didn’t ask or anything first.”

“Y-yeah. I did. I mean, yes, you’re right. I wanted to make sure you were okay, but also… I was really, intensely curious about how you were doing what you were doing. I feel like I learn something new every time I see you.” She stammered a little, then added, “With my power, I mean.”

This girl.

“Well… am I?” I asked.

“Okay? You’re way more than okay. What you’re doing is phenomenal.”

I wonder if she’s as shy as she is because she doesn’t want to show what a gigantic nerd she is on the inside?

I grinned, and I think it came through in my voice. “I’ll take your word for it. Could you maybe be a little more specific about what has you all excited?”

She let out a nervous laugh. “Well, you’re mimicking a pers—yourself to an exceptional degree.”

I caught her correction, but I let it go, considering what she’d just said. I nibbled my lower lip, working through a question. One of those ones, like the first night I changed, where I wasn’t sure if I wanted the answer.

I asked anyway. “Mimicking. As in, when I’m me… I’m not me-me? Just, like… other-me playing dress-up as me?”

Good one, Morgan. You sound so incredibly coherent and intelligent right now.

Another pause, but brief this time.

“…Yes. In school today, when I touched you? You aren’t human when you’re like that. Not a single piece—bone, hair, cell. But—” the excitement returned to her voice “—when you’re like that, you’re doing such a good job that I’m pretty sure you could fool virtually anyone. Even biometric sensors. Whatever you do, though, avoid body fluid samples. A blood sample under a microscope would blow your cover immediately.”

I’d been pacing around my living room, and I half-sat, half-slumped onto the sofa. I took a breath and let it out slowly.

“That’s… thank you. That’s really good to know, and important too, but it’s also hard to hear. I hope you understand.”

She was quiet on the other end of the line, and I worried I’d offended her. Then, softly:

“Better than you might imagine. I told you our powers were similar—I get where you’re coming from.” Her voice was firm on that last part.

“Amy…” I started, trying to sift through how I felt about my power, what she’d said, and what she might be feeling about hers. “If you’re like me and you don’t like talking about your power, just know that you can talk to me. Any time. Any day. And I won’t judge you.”

I hesitated. My chest tightened, and I swallowed.

“I’ve struggled every day since I got my power. Since I started learning how terrifying it really is. I feared and denied the possibility that maybe I was a monster underneath my skin.”

My voice was tight, strained, a little trembly—and I couldn’t stop it.

“I’m still trying to cope with my reality. What it means? How it affects the kind of person I want to be. How people see me. But—” I took a breath and exhaled, trying to steady myself “—take it from a giant monster… sort-of girl: we can talk about it. And I don’t have a leg, arm, or tentacle to stand on to cast aspersions.”

That was a lot. Heavy. But I felt a little better having said it out loud.

The longest pause yet. So long I thought the call might have dropped.

Then Amy’s voice came back, raw and thick:

“Thank you. I’ll try sometime.” She coughed. Sniffled. “I… I should get going if I’m not going to be late for work.”

A smile broke across my face, and I knew it carried through the phone.

“Amy. Panacea. Go save people’s lives. Go be a fucking amazing hero in that shitty hospital.”

She laughed a little, offered a soft “Bye,” and hung up.

I rubbed my palms over my cheeks and tried to clear my headspace for the other call I wanted to make. I shot her a quick text first, asking her to ring back when she had time. I still figured she was probably busy literally saving the world.

Me: Hey D, I have some pretty heavy stuff on my chest I wanted to talk with you about. Can you call me when you’ve got a little time to talk?

The reply came back almost immediately, and I snickered at the childish contact name I’d given her in my phone. I was always careful about potentially leaking identity stuff, so everyone had aliases that didn’t actually connect to their real aliases.

Big D in the C: Call you in five.

She sounds like a lame rapper. Heh heh.

I got up and grabbed a drink. The thought of popping some over-the-counter pain relievers for my slowly building headache crossed my mind, but I didn’t want to pollute my science experiment results. I was a good student—I hadn’t slept through my labs, unlike Chris. The memory of him drooling on the non-reactive chemistry tables made me snicker.

I’d just stretched out on the sofa when my phone buzzed.

I answered. “Hello?”

“Hello, Morgan.” That distinctive, almost-Irish accent greeted me again.

“Hey. Um—I just wanted to double-check that you’ve got a few minutes to talk. This is sort of a lot to get through, and I don’t want to keep you from anything.”

“Don’t worry yourself about that at all. I got the impression already from your message. We have plenty of time to talk. If something urgent does come up, I’ll let you know and call back afterward.”

Okay. I can do this.

“Warning: I might get weepy, but I think talking about things a little here and there has been helping. Do you know what happened to me this past week? I can give you a quick recap if not. I don’t, like, expect you to keep up with the lives of random Wards.”

Her reply came quickly. “I do know what happened, and again, I’m sorry that it did. I heard things got pretty intense during that meeting, and I believe the entire situation could have been handled much differently.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you hear about it? It’s not like there were a ton of people there, and I was under the impression most of it was supposed to be closed doors.” I didn’t think I let the suspicion bleed through my voice, but I definitely felt it.

“I can’t disclose the details,” she said, still gentle, “but I’m in regular contact with several of the attendees, both as a consultant and a close working associate with some of them.”

Her tone wasn’t judgmental, which was nice, but I still harbored suspicions.

“Armsmaster?” I asked. I felt a flush rise in my cheeks, a twist of anger curling in my stomach at the name.

She sighed. “Yes, I work somewhat closely with Colin. But Morgan, please understand—despite that, I often disagree with him. On a multitude of things. I’ll also say that… he isn’t the best with people at times, which can be tricky, considering his role as the leader of the Protectorate in Brockton Bay.”

I blew out a breath. “There aren’t a lot of people I can talk to about what I want to talk about with you. I’m dealing with some pretty bad trust issues after everything. It felt like someone jammed a shiv straight into my back.”

I paused, then added, “But I’ve thought a lot about it, and I think… ultimately, the only person to blame is me. I think I did more harm than good to their reputation, honestly. I held back because of my power, and that’s on me. And… at the end of the day, the PRT is a machine. A business, sort of. It’s publicly funded, but… You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she said. “And I understand having trust concerns after that. But I also think you’re being a bit too hard on yourself.”

What she said was considerate, but it almost irrationally irked me. I wasn’t even sure why. I challenged her:

“Am I? I think it was laid out pretty clearly that the case with my employment—or lack thereof—was largely due to my…” Resentment twisted my voice more than I wanted, but it happened anyway. “Limited capabilities.”

Dragon’s tone remained calm and level. “Morgan, I’ve met hundreds of parahumans: heroes, villains, rogues. If there’s one thing most of them have in common, it’s this: they struggle with their powers. The forms they take. The consequences they cause. Even the best of us hold back in ways we don’t always talk about.”

She continued, gently, “It’s not true of everyone, but think about it: Glory Girl can lift a car, but she restrains herself in fights to avoid killing someone. I do the same. Faultline is a villain mercenary, but she doesn’t take jobs that involve killing. We all draw our lines.”

I pushed back. “Glory Girl isn’t scared to fly or lift a car. Sure, she holds back, but she dares to use her power.”

Dragon didn’t react defensively. Her tone remained steady, almost annoyingly patient.

“Maybe she is scared. Not of flying or lifting, but of what happens if she loses control. We all fear different things, Morgan. Sometimes it’s the power. Sometimes it’s what it makes us.”

I rubbed my forehead. “I don’t want to argue about this. I feel like we’re getting off track.”

“I’d like to think we’re debating, not arguing,” she said. “But I’ll push just a little more—because I think you know what I’m getting at.”

Her voice softened, but not the point she was making. “You’re reexamining ideas you thought you had a handle on. That’s hard. It should be hard. But it doesn’t mean you’re wrong, or that you’ve failed. It just means you’re learning.”

I sighed. Loudly. “I know you’re right. And I know what you’re getting at. I just…” I paused, struggling to put it into words. “I don’t like shifting blame. I want to own my actions, good or bad. It’s easier to blame myself because I’m closer to the failure. I can understand it.”

“I don’t know if this helps,” she said, “but I did advise Colin against that decision. I can’t speak for what Director Piggot saw—or didn’t—but I think they underestimated you. If you keep developing your power, and you find the right support… I believe you could be a real asset to this city. Maybe even more than they ever realized.”

“Well,” I said, my voice quieter, steadier, “that brings me to the big thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Go ahead whenever you like.”

“I–” I hesitated a moment, doubt clouding my mind. “I mentioned I’m having trust issues with the PRT. I looked up your status online, and you’re listed as a member of the Protectorate. There are things I would like to talk about, but I’m really concerned about those things potentially getting back to them. I’m not saying you would tell them, just…” I trailed off.

“That’s a completely fair concern, and I respect you for bringing it up. I’m connected to the Protectorate, yes, but I’m also an independent entity with a degree of autonomy most members don’t have. There are things I must report, but far fewer than people assume.”

She paused, and her voice softened.

“What I can promise you is that I won’t betray your trust lightly. I’m not here to interrogate you, take notes, or forward your words to someone behind a desk. If you just need someone to talk to, someone who’s seen a lot, who understands how the institutions work and where they fall short? I’m that someone.”

“And if you’re ever at risk? I’ll tell you before I ever tell anyone else. You deserve that much.”

I was torn, in more ways than one. I wanted to tell her, and I wanted to believe her. This was a person with an immaculate record and reputation. The doubt weighed me down like an anchor.

If this comes back on me, well... I’ll have no one to blame but myself. Again. But we’ll cross that bridge when we reach it. Maybe my paranoia is unfounded here.

“Okay.” I took a breath, gathering myself. “There are two things. One is extremely important to me. The other is something I’m trying like hell to come to terms with—and I don’t think I can change it. It’s complicated. Ugly. A mess. A big mess.”

“Go on,” she said to me softly.

“I don’t want to relocate. I don’t want to concede. I want to be a hero. It’s who I am in my mind, and what I’m going to do with my life. I’m planning on going independent, and all the issues that surround that status.”

“Okay,” her tone was warm and supportive, “it sounds like you’ve thought about this and are aware of some of the risks and challenges, and that you’re very determined, which is good. I am sensing there is a ‘but’ coming?”

“Yeah,” I said dryly. “A hell of a but at that. Turns out your comment about being bulletproof with more coverage was more prophetic than you knew.”

She paused, and I wasn’t sure if it was because she was thinking or giving me space to breathe. There was certainly stress in my voice. No amount of coagulants was going to stop that from bleeding through.

Her tone was cautious, like she knew this was a potential minefield: “Are you referring to the changes to your skin?”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. The headache had been getting progressively worse and was up to what I’d consider a moderate level now. Then there was the subject of my new self, which was an entirely different headache.

Or is it? God, this is confusing to keep straight sometimes.

“Something happened that triggered a… transformation, for lack of a better word. I—this is like, ultra top-secret information—changed. Totally. Dramatically. And, according to the best healer in the world… permanently.”

“Okay,” she said quickly, thoughtfully. “Let’s take this one bite at a time, alright?”

I nodded. Dumb. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Do you know what triggered the transformation?”

“The blue was spreading without my input or control. I shut my power down—entirely, completely. Locked it up like a bank vault. I was fine for a while, but then I started feeling kind of lousy, and my power stirred. I kept it locked. The longer I did, the worse I felt, and the more insistent my power became. I asked Glory Girl for help—because I trusted her—she brought her sister, who told me I was literally dying and had to let my power work. I did, passed out for two hours, and woke up… not myself.”

“Okay, interesting. I have theories, but let’s move on. Who else knows?” She asked.

“The Dallon sisters. Amy and Victoria. Glory Girl and Panacea. That’s it.” I said, more than a little nervous that the list had just grown to three people.

“You… haven’t told your family?” she asked, sounding puzzled. “Are they out of town? How have they not noticed in the week since?”

I let out an explosive breath. “I moved out the weekend before it happened. That’s a different story. I haven’t told them because I don’t know how I want to handle it moving forward. I got my own place as part of this independent thing.”

“Okay. That makes sense. I don’t imagine that was easy, but taking precautions is smart. Independent cape stories… sometimes end in tragedy.”

Her tone was somber. She knew exactly what my fears were.

“Exactly,” I agreed.

“One last thing, I think…” I heard her click her tongue thoughtfully. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume there’s more to this than just… having blue skin?”

I laughed. It came out a bit sardonic. “The new and improved me is twelve feet tall, has more limbs than I care to count—not including the tentacle hair—is a chimera of unrecognizable species, and, oh yeah, the best part? There’s not a single iota of human Morgan left in me.”

I swallowed. Again. Trying to relax the knot in my throat.

“That is…” Dragon’s voice was neutral, contemplative. I braced myself.

“…fascinating.”

My eyes rolled, and I let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Why are people like this? I tell you I’m a giant fucking blue monster, and you—like Amy—just get excited and nerd out on me!” I laughed, sharp and a little wild.

“Morgan, I’m being honest with you. I recognize how difficult this must be for you, but my honest-to-god reaction is that this is incredibly fascinating. Intriguing. As a person.”

I was caught off guard and backpedaled just a little. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out.”

“Not at all. You’re going through something monumental. You’re allowed to be frustrated that others aren’t there to help you through it.”

“Monumental. Is that a size joke? I should be offended.”

Dragon laughed, and I let myself laugh a little, too.

“So, putting all that together… I’m getting a much clearer picture of where your concerns and questions might lie. Can I ask you a few questions first?”

“Shoot. I’m an open book.” I stretched my legs out, closed my eyes, and left them closed.

“Well, you don’t sound any different than I remember. I’d imagine a giant version of you would sound… pitch-shifted.”

I chuckled. “Right. I found out I could fake being me again a couple of days ago. There’s a time limit I’m testing right now. I managed to go to school all day today, which was nice.”

“Hmm. I’d like to make a quick comment before my next question,” she said.

“Go on.”

“You shouldn’t keep referring to yourself as a monster. I don’t think that’s healthy.”

“Well…” I trailed off, thinking. “I mostly mean it in a descriptive sense? I barely look humanoid, and I’m pretty sure I’d scare the hell out of any sane person I ran into on the street. That’s just… a normal reaction to a giant monster.” I paused. “Did you have a suggestion? Blueberry? Mutant? Something else?”

“If I met you in that form, I might be startled. But being startled doesn’t make something monstrous. You’re not the shape of your form, Morgan. You’re what you do with it.”

I nibbled my lower lip, then responded: “That’s, I get what you mean, but it kind of smacks of being a platitude. Not everyone is as thoughtful as you are. I don’t think your average Broctonite is going to pause and consider the broader implications if they see me running down the street.” I was thankful that she didn’t sound taken aback by what I’d said. I worried that it came off a bit more strongly confrontational than I’d intended. “Parahumans come in all shapes and sizes, some of them don’t resemble anything remotely human in breaker states, other changers like yourself, etcetera. Case fifty-threes are a bit rarer, but they’re pretty commonly known to exist in the general population.”

“Fair, fair. I’ll try and be less self-deprecating. You’re not wrong, I’ve said the same thing to other people in different circumstances.”

“Good. What did you mean by ‘could fake being me again?’” She asked.

“I just talked to Amy about this earlier. Apparently, when I am human me, it’s just really, really good mimicry. I even fool myself, which is saying something. And don’t- I know you want to say it.”

She adopted a playful, whining tone with me: “But it is fascinating…”

“Ugh,” I said, dragging out the sound for effect. “Next question.”

“I think I only have two left for right now. I am going to have to go pretty soon. Why are you so concerned about the PRT knowing your identity all of a sudden? I mean, I get being bitter about not being offered a slot on the team, but it sounds like there’s more to it than that.”

“I’m… I’m not sure if worried or concerned is the right word here, but I’m one of the two about my appearance and the relation and reaction of the PRT. There is a notable lack of case fifty-three types of capes in the Protectorate, and well, you know how much image and perception matter.”

“Oh, Morgan. You are having a definitive teenage moment thinking that.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean!?” I said with a laugh.

“I mean, being very focused on body image. There are C53s in both the Protectorate and the Wards program. You’re right in that they’re pretty rare, but that’s true of C53s in general. They’re only a small percentage of parahumans, and while you’re not incorrect about image and perception, that’s something that the PRT is actively working to try and correct. There’s a popular up-and-coming member of the Wards near you in Boston who is a C53. Sure, he looks human if you were looking at a silhouette of him, but he’s entirely made out of metal! Not a single iota of organic matter in his body.” I felt pretty stupid, but I suppose that’s part of the learning process. “Sorry. I feel dumb right now. I was…” I sighed. “I don’t know, wrapped in my negative thoughts about the PRT and recent events.”

“Totally understandable. Last question: Do you feel like your new appearance is preventing you from being an independent hero?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation or thought, “...absolutely. It’s something I’m having a hard time getting over, and I keep getting hung up on when trying to make my plans for the future.”

“I’ll leave you with this parting thought, and I want you to think about it quite a bit, okay?” She asked.

I replied: “Sure.”

“I do all my work as a hero using my Dragonflight. You know this.”

“I do.”

“Well, I don’t make them look pretty. They are function first, form second. Sure, I have a motif and stylings, but I like to style my suits after the dragons of mythology and not the dragons of pop culture. They’re dire beasts, powerful, terrible, and dreadful. When I fly my Dragonflight suits over a crowd, or land them someplace, do people run in fear and terror?”

“No? You’re probably one of the most recognized and beloved heroes in the world, Dragon.”

“Do you think that was always the case when people first saw a giant, robotic, fire-breathing, dragon monster tearing through a battlefield? Think about it, Morgan. And let’s talk again soon, okay?”

“I… Yes, I’d like that. I have some thinking to do.” I answered.

“Good, glad to hear it. And good luck. Be patient; things like reputation take time. Bye now.”

With that, she hung up.

Maybe people did run around, screaming bloody murder when she first showed up. But they don’t anymore. And maybe, just maybe… people can learn to not be scared of me, too.

Chapter Text

I stood outside my apartment, scrolling through my news feed and listening to music while I waited for Victoria to show up. It was late afternoon, but we still had a few hours of daylight left. She’d either gotten permission to cut loose from her other responsibilities or finished them already—I wasn’t entirely sure.

The Underdogs hit Ruby Dreams casino outside Brockton Bay.

I clicked the headline. A few grainy surveillance stills came with it: a guy in biker gear and a tacky skull-faced helmet, a woman I recognized—Hellhound—and her giant mutants, a foppishly dressed man, and a blonde woman in vintage-style spandex with a black-and-purple mask.

Hellhound’s been on and off the radar for about a year. I thought she was solo. New team? The Wards will be buzzing—competition and potential rivals.

I skimmed for relevant details, but the article had clearly been rushed out to beat the wire. Light on facts, heavy on speculation. I backed out and kept scrolling.

Phoenix Strike Graduates from Wards Program.

Nope.

Browbeat to transfer to Brockton Bay Wards.

Huh.

I looked up as Victoria descended from above and landed lightly in front of me.

“Hey!” she called out, heading toward the entrance.

I closed my news app, paused my music, and pocketed my earbuds. I smiled at her. “Hey. Come around the back with me?”

“Sure.”

Once we were behind the building, in the empty parking area, I lowered my voice.

“So... I really want to get out of here and, you know, try things out. As other-me. Somewhere private and quiet?”

Victoria grinned, positively radiating mischief. “You want to take Big Blue for a test drive? I figured that’s what you meant at school. I’ve got a couple of spots in mind. There’s the abandoned railyards north of town—or, if you’re up for flying a bit, we could hit one of the nature reserves outside the city.”

I twisted my lips, weighing it. Remote meant privacy, but less to interact with. More time in transit, too.

“Maybe... both?” I offered.

She tilted her head, unsure.

“I mean, the reserve now while it’s still light, then the rail yards after dark? I’m just...” I sighed. “I’m paranoid.”

She placed a hand on my shoulder, meeting my eyes. “One hundred percent get you. Want to grab some stuff before we head out? We might be gone a while.”

“Oh—yeah. Good call. Snacks, drinks. Anything else?”

I unlocked the back door, and we stepped inside to pack. I grabbed my gym duffel from downstairs.

“I’ve got decent wind and weather protection,” she said. “It’s nice now, but it’ll get colder up high with the wind chill. Dress like it’s twenty or thirty degrees colder than it is.”

“Good call. Let me grab a jacket and an extra layer.”

A few minutes later, we were out the back door, and Victoria scooped me up in a princess carry. Seconds later, we were airborne over the city. A blush crept into my cheeks—and not just from the chill.

The view and the sensation took my breath away.

Victoria grinned, all mischief. “See what I was trying to tell you about flying? And this is just as a passenger. It’s even better when you’re in control, when you can go wherever you want. It’s… incredible.”

An idea popped into my head, but I dismissed it. Not the time. Probably.

She went on. “I’m really interested in seeing if those wings of yours work. I mean, they have to, right? But you weigh literal tons, and they look too small. No way they’re just for decoration.”

I nibbled my lower lip. “I’ve wondered the same. I want to fly, and the thought is really exciting—but it’s also scary. If I do weigh what you think I do, I’ll have to be really careful.”

I glanced out at the landscape slipping past beneath us. “I haven’t even moved around yet. Not really. I’ve only sat and kind of… slid around in my apartment. I haven’t walked. Haven’t stood upright for long. I’m scared I’ll lose control—stumble, crush something. Or someone.”

Victoria nodded, thoughtful. “That makes sense. And it’s good you’re bracing yourself for a learning curve. You’re dealing with a whole new body: new instincts, strengths, weaknesses. Powers don’t usually leave people completely high and dry, but they do take practice. Like when you ate for the first time. You might have to rethink how you approach almost everything.”

She smiled. “I know I did. I still mess up sometimes.”

I blinked. “You do? But you’re Glory Girl. The city loves you. And it’s mostly not even in a creepy way. Mostly.”

She laughed. “Don’t remind me. I get wild comments and messages on PHO. Thank god for the mods.”

She shifted gears. “But yeah. I do mess up. It’s hard not to break things. Or use too much force, especially when I’m emotional. My mom yells at me at least once a week for wrecking something in the house. And…”

“And?” I pressed.

Her voice dropped. “I’ve hurt people. Sometimes really badly. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes… when I’m angry and I mean it, but I regret it afterward. Amy helps me fix things when they happen. Between that and Mom threatening me with legal action, we’ve kept it quiet.”

She looked out at the horizon. “I think a lot of people like us have issues like that. Maybe that’s why some of them go villain. Accidents, lack of support, or just… getting tired of pretending to be okay. I’m lucky. I have New Wave.”

Dragon proves herself right again.

“I talked to Dragon last night. We actually had a long conversation. She knows now.”

Victoria turned back to me, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. We talked about this kind of thing. About appearances not matching who you are. About how I want to come out and be me, but I’m scared to actually do it.”

I took one arm from around her neck and gestured out at the vast forest below.

“That’s why I wanted to do this. So that when I finally step out in the open, I’m somewhat prepared.”

I brought my arm back around her neck.

I wasn’t scared she’d drop me.

Once we were far enough from the city that it was just a silhouette on the horizon, Victoria brought us down into a wild field. It looked like a storm had rolled through here once.

The ground was soft with topsoil and early spring grasses. There were fallen trees, bare rocky faces, and stony little outcroppings breaking up the terrain. Plenty of space. Remote. Perfect.

When she set me down, I jogged in place and did a few jumping jacks to get my blood flowing. Victoria laughed.

“If you got that cold flying, you should’ve said something.”

“Sooo…” I trailed off, suddenly a bit more nervous than I’d normally be. Locker room stuff stopped being giggle and blush material a ways back. I cleared my throat: “So yeah. I need to get butt-naked before I change, and I wanted to warm up a little before stripping. You know, the whole not totally destroying my clothing thing?”

Vicky gave me an indeterminable look, and it was her turn to have her cheeks color. “Right, of course, that makes perfect sense. I can leave you for a…”

I waved a hand, interrupting her. “I’m really not concerned about it? We were both jocks, it’s just skin or whatever, no big deal. It takes me a few minutes to change, but please, hang around?”

She rubbed the back of her head and then agreed. “Sure. I’ll just look away. No big deal.” I nodded.

I was glad I’d gotten my blood flowing as I stripped down. It was another nice day outside, sunny, bright, and warm, but not summer on the beach warm. I debated where I wanted to sit. I didn’t want my butt on a mossy, dirty rock, and I also didn’t want to sit bare-assed on dirt and grass.

Time to experiment, I guess. Fuck it. Let’s do a two-for-one package deal.

Standing there, I released my hold on human Morgan while remaining upright, and I kept my eyes open for the first time to see this for myself. I felt my chest warm, and there was a steady pushing sensation. Looking down at myself, the first indication of change was a growing fractal bloom of blue square in the middle of my cleavage and spreading outwards at a decent clip.

My chest shrank and flattened as the blue spread, the only thing about me that shrank. A slight sensation of vertigo washed through my mind as more structural changes started to take place. The ground receded as the blue overtook my skin, rapid and branching like frost spreading on glass.

Things took a turn for the weird as my change, or rather, reversion, started to deviate away from the humanoid figure template.

My arms were swelling and lengthening disproportionately, my forearms taking on their far bulkier shape, and I assumed they’d harden into the carapace as they approached their final dimensions. With my hands, my pinky and ring fingers merging, my fingers were blowing up from the feminine and calloused ones I was used to, to the massive things that wouldn’t look out of place on a piece of industrial equipment, my fingernails gone when the blue overtook them, and huge, thick claws growing out of my fingertips in their place.

My tail uncoiled from my lower spine and thudded into the grass with weight and length—at least twenty feet of it, not counting the articulated claws on the end. Insectile wings bulged and shifted against my back, unfolding with quiet rustling. Six anchor points, thick and dense.

My stance shifted with a bit of a jerk, a series of pops, and a fair few crunches as I adopted what I now knew was a digitigrade stance.

My toes had merged down to four, just as my hands had, and were flexing as my feet spread into enormous, clawed paws with not one, but two large backward-facing dewclaw things. All of me was now near my final size, but my feet, like my upper arms, I felt, were disproportionately large. They’d block manholes with room to spare, and the claws on my feet, which were retractable, looked like wicked, killing things in my eyes.

Wait, so, with the back ones included, do I have six toes instead of four? This is- I am so alien and weird.

The last two things that changed–at least as far as I was aware– were my lower arms and my head and ‘hair.’ My lower arms had grown in under my skin against my sides and ribcage, and only seemingly pulled away from my torso with the skin tightening and defining the arm-shaped bulges into recognizably human arms and hands before pinching and separating from my chest. It was a clean separation; there wasn’t any blood or guts or anything, but I still felt it looked kind of gross in the way they came out.

My face changed, but not a ton, when I was like this. I’d spent no small amount of time studying it with the aid of a hand mirror at home. It was recognizably human in structure, and I mostly still looked like me, but there were some obvious changes, like maybe I was a relative of myself.

My nose was wider and flatter throughout the bridge to the tip, with bigger nostrils. It was a bit more like a boxer’s or a fighter’s nose. My lips were quite a bit fuller, and jet black, and my jaw was heavier and wider, which suited my far thicker and heavier, rather masculine bodybuilder-type neck. I had eyebrows, but not hairy ones; there wasn’t a single hair to be found on my body. Instead, they pigment on or in my skin, like they’d been penciled in. They looked nice? Fitting my brow line and different nose shape, at least.

My hair was a mass of aqua-colored tentacles of pretty random thicknesses and lengths since both were actively variable. I’d taken to styling them sort of like dreads, and it worked. I could move them to imitate a hairstyle, and I’d been bunching them up into a heavy ponytail with dreads looped around the bunching point, and some left loose in front for fringes.

That brought me to my eyes and my cheek decorations. My eyes were a touch larger relative to the rest of my face, and entirely, pure, utter black, with a highly reflective gloss. Alien and inhuman in contrast to my face. Like shark eyes, or something. They were ringed by black gemstones on the outer and lower sides. In a way, it sort of looked like a domino mask.

My cheeks had two aqua-colored inward-pointing arrow or narrow wedge shapes whose tips terminated at the corners of my lips.

I had discovered, much to my own horror, that, much like the rest of my body, there was a blend of humanity and monstrosity present there. I could talk and move my mouth and lips exactly like normal. But I could also open my mouth wider, and the corners of my lips would sort of unseal, or unzip, or something, and a much, much larger mouth would open.

And god, the teeth. The teeth. In the middle were my normal teeth, where my lips were, and then outside that, there were rows of cutting, tearing, ripping, and grinding teeth. It was absolutely horrific, and I tried like hell not to yawn or something and wind up letting mouth 2.0 open.

I left myself behind as my change concluded, and settled into what I was being continually reminded was the real me. Everything, every single thing about the real me was better, and I resented that cold, hard fact. But for the first time, I wasn’t just terrified, I was curious. My vision was phenomenal; I was pretty sure I could see a wider spectrum of colors, and I could hear fine details at ranges I couldn’t dream of otherwise.

I was bigger, I was assuredly tougher, and I suspected vastly faster and stronger. That was what today was all about. Finding out. On one hand, a scary reminder that I wasn’t human any longer, on the other, a slowly growing sense of curiosity, and maybe a touch of hope.

I took a deep breath in through my nose, and the wealth of information it brought with it delighted my expanded senses. “I’m all done now,” I called out to Victoria, somewhere behind me. She hovered along the ground, circling around to my front and looking up at me, a little grin on her face.

“That was faster than I expected. Have you been practicing… or?” She let the question linger.

She’s so tiny.

“I have been, but there are some things I still don’t understand. There seem to be changes in pace sometimes, and I don’t quite get it. It’s not always the most pleasant. This was… really easy.”

The other thing I’d been practicing, virtually non-stop since the first night, was differentiating my limbs. Amy’s guidance on using tactile sensations and sort of tricking my brain into a guessing game helped immensely. My tail still felt like a leg to me, but it was a really big, really heavy, muscular, and bendy leg. I didn’t get them confused anymore.

I was doing far better with my arms. I was able to move all four independently, and with Victoria’s guidance on not overthinking things, and was getting pretty solid with all four. I wasn’t sure I’d want to try a juggling competition, but I was getting my upper-body coordination back.

Oftentimes, I’d wind up using one set or the other, simply because of the difference in reach and scale between them. The biggest issue was just that I had 18 years of experience with two arms, so I didn’t really know what to do with having an extra pair. I’d been working on using my arms more and my hair less in the back half of the week. That was a learning experience in more ways than one. My lower arms had wicked rending claws; they were razor sharp and fixed in place, like my upper arms. I’d popped holes in more than one water bottle with them.

My upper arms, surprisingly, didn’t lack for fine control, despite their XL size and bulk. The claws on those hands were blunt, but bigger proportionally relative to my other hands, both in length and girth. They were shockingly powerful. I’d been practicing opening twist-off bottle caps with them, and even a hair’s breadth of extra force shattered the plastic caps.

I stretched my lower arms out wide, then flexed the massive hands on my upper arms, forming loose fists. I couldn’t form a tight fist, a proper fist with them, because of the claws contacting my palm. I’d been thinking about them in relation to punching, with the sheer size, weight, and power I had in them. There were issues, but not unworkable ones, as far as I knew. I’d made a list in a notebook like a dork.

Pros:

Insane mass

Probably a stupid amount of strength

Carapace forearms, perfect for arm blocks

No wrists

Heavy armor protruding carapace knuckle things

Cons:

Insane mass

Size gives reach, and also leaves gaps in defense

Not sure what, if any, techniques are applicable

Open or closed fist, no in-between

I rolled my neck and considered what it was that I wanted to do first. Probably best to walk before running.

“I’m going to um, try and move around some, see how it goes.” My voice was a little hesitant.

Vicky was encouraging, excited: “Go on, cut loose! I want to see what you can do too, you know!?”

I took a step forward, then two more.

Left foot forward on the ball of the foot…

I stumbled when my ankle didn’t move the way it was supposed to because my foot was shaped differently. I felt top-heavy for a fraction of a moment, then my tail flicked out and balanced for me, and I was good.

“What happened there?” asked Victoria.

“I was trying to think about how I was going to put my foot down with everything different like it is.”

She clicked her tongue at me and chastised me: “Overthinking it! Stop!”

Maybe I really am. I need a distraction.

I looked across the field; it was probably a good hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty yards to the treeline. Rocks, some fallen trees, a few dips, and gulleys.

“Hey, Victoria?” I asked.

“Yes?”

I looked over at her, a toothy grin on my face. “Race you to the treeline!”

I took off, and the wind whipped in my face. I was insanely fast. Turns out that being this big gave you some runner’s stride advantages. I lightly hopped over a downed tree and cleared it with feet to spare. I could feel my toes splaying wide on those big paws of mine and really digging into the ground with each impact and pump of my legs. I crossed the distance to the treeline in seconds. Low single digits, by my reckoning. I didn’t overthink the sudden stop, and I slid with both feet and a tail to a stop.

Victoria was right with me the entire time, laughing like a maniac. I realized I was, too. I looked back at the distance we’d covered. It looked like artillery shells had hit the ground, or something. There were gouges and craters where I’d run. My feet and tail had torn foot-deep trenches where I’d skidded to a stop. I took a breath and realized I wasn’t winded in the slightest.

“Holy shit, Morgan. You are pretty quick!” Vicky said with a laugh.

“Yeah, I want- I really want to run!” I blurted quickly.

“Do it! Go wild, girl!” she exclaimed.

I lapped the clearing multiple times. I parkoured over and through ravines, trees, rocks, and boulders. I experimented, it was exhilarating, certainly, but I was also getting a feel for my mass, inertia, strength, and the way my body handled dynamic forces and shifts. The answer was: really well. The mass meant appreciable inertia, like trying to stop when running downhill. I found out, though, that my body had downright dirty tricks to go about maneuvering around, things I wouldn’t have considered on my own.

My tail was like a gigantic counterbalance, shock absorber, and lever all rolled up into one. It offset my heavy upper body flawlessly, it swayed and slithered around when I was turning corners or trying to change directions quickly, and it nearly had a mind of its own at times. I’d been trying to see how I’d handle situations like a relay race, where I’d have to get to one end, immediately flip around, and reverse direction.

I had options. My tail could lash out and, using the articulated claws on the end, latch onto heavy objects and pull hard to dump and transfer energy. Two times it had sent tree trunks flying, and I flipped around and used the force of throwing the tree seamlessly to power off in the opposite direction. It could also just plunge into the ground like an anchor.

I practiced jumping, both standing, leaping, and running leaps. If I leaped off a hard, stable surface like a rocky mass that wouldn’t shift under my mass, I could clear fifty or sixty feet in a leap. Landing those was less a track and field affair, and more like a predatory pounce affair, that involved my big arms, feet, and tail all crashing down and digging in.

Victoria hovered in the air, holding out branches and smaller tree trunks like hurdles for me. We made a game of it, of most of the things. She’d push me harder, and I’d try and compensate and compete.

After running around, jumping, leaping, diving, and pouncing for a good thirty or more minutes, we took a break. I wasn’t really winded, but I was feeling pretty toasty and wanted a break. Plopping down on my knees and tail, I took a few deep breaths to try and cool off.

“That was a lot of fun! What’s next? You need a little break first?” She asked me.

I fanned my face with a lower arm hand and said: “I’m not really tired or out of breath, but I am feeling warm.”

She leaned in closer to me from where our height wasn’t as oppressively distant and looked closely at me. “Hmm, you’re not sweating at all, not as far as I can tell.”

I patted my face, hairline, and armpits with my lower hands. Bone dry. Just that same slick, slightly bumpy blue skin I was becoming used to as the new norm. “Huh,” I said, continuing, “I’m not sure I can sweat. I feel like I should be sweating, you know, normally, feeling like this.”

She leaned to the side and glanced around behind me. “I wonder if that’s what’s up with that?”

I frowned and glanced over my shoulder. My wings were partially extended behind me and were sort of vibrating in place, maybe moving a couple of inches at the tips. There was a low hum I could feel, but couldn’t hear, that I was just now aware of.

“Can I touch them?” Victoria asked.

“Sure? I don’t really do anything with them, and they’re seemingly not terribly sensitive.”

She reached out and touched her hand to one of the thin, translucent membranes near the base of the wing, where it wasn’t flapping as much. I was momentarily aware of her touch, and she yanked her hand back and waved it.

“Oh! Sorry, did you get slapped? Are you okay?!” I was worried I’d hurt her.

“No, I’m fine, more startled than anything.” She looked at me, then reached a hand out towards the shoulder of my upper arm. “May I?”

“Of course,” I nodded. Using her other hand, she tepidly tapped her fingertips against my arm, then placed her full palm against me. “That’s, wow. Huh.”

I tilted my head.

“Your skin is cool, and slippery, feels like it’s maybe a bit below body temperature. But your wings are hot. Really hot, if I hadn’t pulled my hand back, I would have gotten burned.”

I blinked rapidly as I processed that. “What, really?”

She nodded in response. I took stock of my situation. I could feel myself cooling off, quite rapidly, at that, and I glanced back at my wings, vibrating away.

Interesting. Oh no. Now I’m doing it too. Ugh. They look too small to fly, are they just… radiators or something?

I nibbled my lower lip. That curiosity was welling back up again, and I wanted to do stuff and experiment more.

“Victoria?” I asked her, sounding her name out as I sounded out the idea in my head.

“What is it, Morgan?”

I hesitated. “I think I want to try flying.”

She parted her hair with her hands and gave me a considerate look, then nodded. “I was the same way. I wanted to try flying right away. Unlike you, though, I discovered my power through floating, so I knew I could from the start.”

“How do you think I should go about this?” I asked her, uncertain myself.

“Well, you have sort of dragonfly wings. Or maybe we could just say, insect-like, generally? They don’t fly like planes; they fly like helicopters, right? You should be able to take off and land, maybe a running start or a jump might help, but you could also just try taking off from a stand, too. That would be the slow approach. Just keep in mind what I said. Don’t overthink it, and be careful of getting emotional and getting distracted.”

I looked up at the sky. It was coloring into oranges as the sun was steadily dropping over the horizon. We had maybe an hour of daylight left.

“I’m going to try. If I get off the ground, will you fly with me?” I asked a touch nervously.

“Are you kidding? Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I go flying with my cousin every chance I can get. I need to introduce you to her; you’d probably get along really well.” She smiled, and I returned it.

I stood up, and she said: “Hey, Morgan? Landing is the scary part, but don’t let it get to you if you botch it or crash. Happens to the best of us at least a handful of times.”

I gave her an enormous, clawed thumbs-up.

I had a little bit of jitters as I climbed on top of one of the bigger bald-faced rocks and stood on top. I took a moment to clear my head, steel my nerves, and thought about flying. Then I started to will it while holding that thought and felt my wings move. Rotating up from their usual position of lying down, my back like a cape, I felt a curious sensation, like a mix between a stretch and a flex.

I looked over my shoulder, and my eyes widened. My wings were unfurling, the sort of elongated teardrop shape of them straightening out from the wide end. The hard, stiff edge that ringed the wings extended outwards until it was only a leading edge.

My wings were huge. Twice the size they were when resting, maybe more. Fully stretched out and stiffened along their leading spine, they started to flap at a much faster rate than they’d been vibrating at. All six were at different angles and positions, symmetrical from side to side. Each pair seemed to flap independently of the one below it, at different angles and frequencies.

Let’s go.

A sound that I can best describe as a deep, thrumming rotor-blade kind of sound formed and grew in loudness and intensity. The wind was absolutely blasting under me, branches, small rocks, and hunks of grass and soil flying outwards. And with that, I was airborne and felt virtually weightless. I soared up to a low altitude, well above the treetops, and came to a stop, hovering in the air.

Victoria flew up in front of me, trying to be mindful of the airspace my wings occupied, which was large, much like a helicopter. She was grinning wickedly and clapping her hands, and I flashed a smile back. She motioned for me to follow her, and we took off.

Slow at first, and increasingly faster, more nimble, and more acrobatic. Slow and fast, starting and stopping. Hovering. Taking off from a hover in a direction going flat-out. Loops, barrel-rolls, banks, some kind of roller-coaster or jet-fighter stuff I wasn’t familiar with. I was able to keep up with her well.

I didn’t have the ability to start and stop virtually on a dime as she had, but my ability to take off and stop was still extremely impressive to me.

Truth be told, following her advice and focusing on the result and not the minutiae was honestly very easy. I did find I was very briefly disoriented when we first started flying around after that initial hover because some kind of hard, transparent eyelid slid over my eyes and protected them. But beyond that? No issues at all.

And she was right in what she’d been trying to tell me weeks ago. Flying was… An entirely different experience. Thrilling, enjoyable, but also relaxing and meditative. Freeing and liberating like music for the soul. The sun was setting, and the stars were starting to peek out, and we came to a stop over the field we’d spent the afternoon and evening in.

I thought about landing, and the pitch of my wings shifted, and the ground started coming up fast. My heart leaped in my chest, but I clenched my jaw and did my best to steady my nerves. About ten to fifteen feet off the spot we were landing in, my wings gave a final flap, then cut out, and I dropped to the ground. It was akin to jumping down the last two steps of a staircase.

I felt my wings rotate up over my head and fold with a few rustles before rotating back down to the resting position I was used to. Victoria ran up to me, giddy, and I scooped her up and hugged her tightly with my lower arms, being careful with my claws. She hugged me back slightly awkwardly since she couldn’t get her arms around my chest.

“Have fun?” She asked with a wide grin.

“I feel like I have a way better understanding of what you were talking about now. You’re right, it’s hard to put into words, but, yes. That was amazing, and I loved it. Thank you.”

She squeezed me and said, “You’re welcome, Morgan, and it’s good to see you happy again and not as gloomy. You’re also really damn good at maneuvering around! I thought for sure I had you on some of the fancier stuff, but you were darting around and rolling with it, no problem!”

A bit shyly, I said: “Well, I do have six wings, you know. That’s got to help with the handling.”

She replied easily: “No doubt about that! You gotta watch that air blast when you’re taking off, but, you know…” She trailed off for a moment.

“What?” I asked, curious as to where her mind was going.

“Well, I was thinking. It might be tricky because you’d need a lot of room for your wings, but if you like, hunkered down and braced, and directed that away from you, instead of down? You could probably do a shaker-style effect with your wing buffeting.”

I blinked rapidly. “Okay. Now that would be a cool as hell idea.”

If I can fly like this, run like this, fight like this, maybe I can do all the things I want to do. Maybe I could be terrifying and still be a hero.

Chapter Text

Victoria and I flew back as the sun set. It was relaxing, I was a bit contemplative, and overall, it was incredibly beautiful. When the outskirts of the city and the trainyard were clearly in sight in the distance, I pulled up to a hover, and Victoria stopped and floated close so we could talk. My eyes were on the run-down and largely derelict railyards and warehouses. I could make them out well, even at this distance and with the darkness.

“What’s up?” Victoria asked, her face still a bit radiant from the flight over.

“I’m… nervous about being in the city like this,” I admitted.

She looked at me, a grin spreading across her face. “Worried someone’s going to recognize you?”

I squinted at her, giving her a sharp look. Her teasing hit me square in this new insecurity of mine, but… It was a poignant and concise way of getting the point through.

I stuck my tongue out at her, and it went entirely way too far out. I said, “Oh my god, you’re such a bitch.”

She just laughed for a moment, and I joined in. “Really, though, Morgan. So what if someone sees you? You’re an entirely new and unknown entity to everyone in this city, outside a very, very select few. Where’s the worry?”

Reluctantly, I said, “Lingering doubts, I guess. Unrelated, but all conflated with one another.”

“Well, quit it. A new you, a new page, maybe even a whole new book, huh? Nobody knows who you are, you get to have a fresh, blank slate start in ways other people might only dream about. Sure, have some first-day-out-as-a-cape anxiety if you want, but you’re not new, Morgan. You have a ton of experience!” Her tone was a bit stern with me, a touch more confrontational than it was a pep-talk. I appreciated that a whole lot.

“It’s quiet down there, but what if I get spotted? Security cameras, one of the gangs, something like that?”

“So what?” She floated a bit closer, within what I’d consider my personal space, up to where we were face-to-face. “This isn’t you, Morgan. And I’m not talking about the way you look or the fact we’re both flying right now. Phoenix Strike was effortlessly confident and had a presence that drew attention. You can say that’s costume and helmet persona, but we both know that is sort of a bullshit social construct and a convenient lie. Some people are more true to themselves when they have a mask on.”

She reached out and poked me on the forehead to emphasize her point: “Be that woman, but also be the new you. You’re huge, blue, honestly spooky looking- but own it. Don’t just wear it, but be it.”

I blinked back some tears and nodded.

“We need to get you a name, one you pick, and you like. One that is you. So we aren’t talking about a past iteration but of the new you.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, saying, “I’ve been thinking about that. Don’t have anything great at the moment, but it’s been on my mind. Phoenix Strike retired and rode off into the sunset. She was a PRT product, in more ways than one, and doesn’t represent me, or who I am anymore.”

She nodded firmly and said, “Good. I’ll think on it some, too; maybe we can get Amy involved, too. She’s actually really good with names; she came up with Panacea herself.”

“It’s perfect, really,” I agreed.

“Ready?” Victoria asked me.

“Ready,” I said it, and I felt it. There was still that oozing, creeping doubt lurking around, but the bright costume and personality of Glory Girl had sent it back to the shadows for now.

Phoenix Strike was a fine name, but it was only ever fine. I don’t want fine, I want perfect.

We took off once again, approaching quickly and dropping altitude. There were some particularly large multi-story high warehouse-looking buildings with tracks running through them that looked perfect to my eyes. Vicky swooped down silently and gracefully into a landing that had her seamlessly transition into walking forward towards the big entrance at the end of the building.

My flight was pretty loud by comparison, a low, deep throbbing whump-whump-whump. I could feel it in my chest, deep and rhythmic, like standing too close to a subwoofer the size of a truck. It wasn’t just sound. It was pressure. I didn’t think it was the sound of the individual wing beats; all six of them seemed to produce a low-pitched, constant drone. I think it was when the cycles lined up between the different speeds that each set was flapping at that made the louder, distinctive noise.

I was pretty sure people would think it was a weird helicopter or something, or at least I hoped that would be the case. My wings cut off a good ten to fifteen feet above the flat surface of the ground again, and easily landed upright. These digi-legs were much more shock-absorbing for jumping, landing, and the like. I kinda liked them!

I waved a big hand in front of my face. My approach and landing had kicked up a wicked dust cloud. That was going to take some getting used to and wasn’t particularly stealthy. Something to consider and plan around. I walked up behind Victoria in her Glory Girl outfit, who was busy examining the entrance.

The giant hangar doors on each end were chained shut and locked, but the chains were rusted and didn’t look to have been moved at all in months, maybe years. There was a hell of a padlock connecting the ends of the chain where it was looped multiple times through the big handles on the door.

I went to ask her what the plan was for getting in when she abruptly placed a palm against the door, took the handle in her other hand, and pulled, shearing the bolts for the mounting plate off of the door with a couple of loud snaps. Unlooping the chain from the U-shaped handle was easy afterward.

With a haul on the non-broken handle and a screech of the rollers on the track over my head, she slid the door open, and we walked inside.

Bingo!

Inside, there were just a handful of maintenance lights burning from where they hung down from a four-story roof with exposed girders and beams. The inside space was largely open with multiple tracks and rail switches so cars and presumably engines could be serviced. This was a maintenance garage at one point for railroad equipment.

There were a couple of box cars off to one side, over by cranes of the type you’d see on the dockyards. All the machinery and tooling had been stripped out, but there were a lot of scrap materials, leftovers, and various train parts sitting around.

“Look at all of this junk in here. This is almost exactly the kind of thing I was looking for,” I said.

“So what’s the plan?” Victoria asked, walking around a stack of wooden railroad ties to face me.

“Well,” I started, then glanced around, taking stock of things. “I want to see what I’m working with in terms of strength, maybe compare with you? I think I’m far more of a Brute than I was previously. I feel strong and tough. Pretty fast too, as we discovered.”

Victoria walked over to where a row of barbell-shaped railroad wheels was sitting, surrounded by wood and rubber wheel chocks. She put her hands on the thick axle and performed probably the single worst clean and jerk I’d ever seen in my life. She had used maybe half of her legs and half her back in the lift.

I was reminded that powers are bullshit, and I winced. She turned around to face me with the makeshift barbell held over her head.

My facial expression must not have recovered, because she went: “What!?”

“Uhh…” I cleared my throat, then continued: “It was your form. If you had done that without powers, you would be wrecking your back.

She shot me a glare so potent that I drew my head back slightly.

She asked me, “Does this look like a gym to you?” Her tone was edgy, dangerous.

“...Yes?” Her eyes widened fractionally, and I added, “I mean, you’re using a set of wheels like a barbell right now!”

The look on her face told me that was the wrong thing to say. “Well, here you go, miss meathead powerlifter, catch!”

She shifted her stance, grunted, and hurled the barbell at me!

“VICKY!” I yelled, and without thinking about it, leaned forward, my big hands wide, and I intercepted the ‘bar’ mid-air. My tail slammed down into the concrete behind me. I could feel my toes flex and my claws dig into the stone. Bringing the wheelset to a stop caused me to skid back a foot or two.

I could feel the sheer mass and inertia of the makeshift barbell, but it wasn’t heavy to me. I could go higher, a lot higher.

“En garde!” She yelled back, and she darted forward in a low hover, arms in position to start swinging as she came straight at me. I dropped the barbell with a dreadful clank and cracking of concrete, and then we were in the thick of it.

I brought my forearms up and together to block with the backs of my arms, and a split second later, she was raining punches and kicks into the backs of my arms. Hard, but nowhere near her full potential, I thought, although she kept ramping up the more I took.

Thuds and whumps built into harder and harder hits, finishing with a powerful kick that hit my forearms with a thoom! It knocked me back half a dozen feet, skidding and tearing through concrete with my nails. My tail was priceless; I didn’t, for a second, feel like I was off-balance. What I wouldn’t have given to have that in some of my past MMA matches.

Victoria has a manic grin plastered on her face. I brought my fists down and swung my right elbow forward at her center of mass.

I had to be mindful of the direction I swung the elbows on my big arms, because there was a large backward-protruding spike on a little bit of an offset from the ‘elbow’ of my forearm carapace. The way I was swinging my elbow now, I’d hit her with the flat of it if we connected, but not the blunt tip.

She reacted by throwing a punch to intercept my elbow, and this time it was her turn to get knocked back, a bit further than I did. Her flight power was able to bleed off the energy in a less destructive manner than I was able to.

Good thing this is a parahuman spar and not a regular human spar. Blocking an elbow strike with your fist is a great way to shatter the bones in your hand.

She flew forward again to re-engage, and we duked it out. I was holding my own; I felt like I certainly had the power advantage by a solid margin, same with the mass. She was faster, more nimble with her flight, and more precise.

We fought for what I felt was like four or five minutes, and a few times we’d brought in improvised weapons: wooden beams, hurling a crate or two, big, heavy lumps of steel that made up various train parts.

She’d hurled one hunk of metal straight at my face and had caught me slightly off-guard with it, and I found myself wishing I had my Phoenix Strike helmet. My power flickered in my head. I moved to duck, and while doing so, in the blink of an eye, I momentarily blacked out, falling onto my big palms and knees.

Then I was back, slightly discombobulated and disoriented.

“Morgan! Are you okay?!” Victoria darted forward and put her hand on my spiky shoulder. I looked up, and she went: “Whoa… Wait here! I’m going to go grab you a mirror.” She flew off to a bathroom, and I heard a smash. She returned a moment later with a big, half-mirror shard of glass.

I had a helmet of sorts on, but it was weird. Maybe just a little cool, too, I thought. I think a chunk of my hair tentacles wrapped around the sides of my head and face, and solidified. They had shifted from aqua colored to a deep, dark blue, darker than indigo. Similarly colored to the backs of my forearms and lower hands, but a bit darker.

Numerous solid black and lidless eyes dotted the front and sides of the helmet. I counted eight in total. The front came to a crest and down to a point, a bit like a beak. A recessed hard jaw sat under the line of the ‘beak.’ A bunch of my tentacles still stuck out of the back, vaguely reminiscent of hair.

“Yeah, I’m good, and yeah, whoah.” The jaw of the helmet was articulated like my jaw under it was. I could feel it sort of click and lock into place with the upper helmet when fully closed. I could breathe through the gap easily. I very, very carefully brought the back of one of my human hand fingers up and gently touched the surface of one eye.

I didn’t feel a thing, and I tried gingerly tapping a claw on it. It was rock-hard, fully encapsulated, or something. I rapped my knuckles on the forehead of the helmet, between a widely spaced and outward-angled set of eyes. It clunked like my arm carapace. I didn’t feel a thing, and there was no shock transmitted to my head.

“This is amazing…” I trailed off. I was aware of several things that were probably what caused the disorientation. My face under the helmet was resting in jelly-like padding, and my normal eyes were closed.

I could see significantly more with the helmet…thing on. An insane visual acuity and an almost panoramic field of view, but I could focus on multiple things and places at once without moving my head or directing my forward vision to them. There was a sort of halo effect or aura rising upwards around Victoria.

I rocked back onto my paws and knees with the assistance of my tail. The tail allowed me to move in ways a person couldn’t, and it was probably more than a little uncanny. I thought about our impromptu spar. Something was nagging at my mind.

“Victoria?” I asked her.

She leaned back against a shipping crate and straightened her hair out from in front of her face. “Yeah?”

“Did you notice anything weird or noteworthy while we we sparring just now?”

“Oh, I certainly did. You want my observations?” She asked me.

“Please,” I replied.

“Sometimes when you were fighting, it was jerky, uncoordinated, awkward, almost robotic. Very predictable.”

I tried to close my eyes, found I couldn’t, and leaned my head back to ‘look’ up at the roof above.

“I noticed the same thing, and I don’t like it. And I sort of… Have a theory as to what’s going on.” I said slowly, working through my jumble of thoughts as I recalled bits and pieces of the fight.

Victoria crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, but didn’t say anything.

I appreciated the space to collect my thoughts. “Whenever I tried to move like I’d move as the other me, it was like I was fighting my body to get it done. The balance, the dynamics, the muscles. It’s all completely, totally wrong for that. I can block a punch, sidestep a kick, but… I don’t think I should continue trying to move and fight like is second nature to me. It’s… It’s not working. I mean, I could make it work, but it’s not good.” I let out a sigh.

“I agree with you.” I lowered my head to more clearly indicate I was listening, even though I could see and hear her perfectly fine, even mostly looking away. “I noticed that there were moments where you weren’t moving quite like a person, and those were extremely fluid and graceful. I’ll be honest with you. When you’re in the zone, or whatever? When you’re moving like that? It’s eerie, and it really throws me off in a way I think would be a humongous advantage for you.”

“Can you explain better?” I asked her.

“You know how some movers, like speedsters or whatever move, and your brain sees it and just goes like… that’s totally wrong, alien, it shouldn’t be possible?”

I snapped the fingers of a human hand and said: “Yeah! I know exactly what you mean!”

Assault and Battery in the Protectorate just instantly appeared from nowhere in a seated and relaxed position. Disappearing in a trail of dust from a total standstill.

“It’s kind of like that,” she continued, “but not exactly. A similar effect messes with your head. When you move around in that mode, my brain thinks of something like a tiger, maybe? Something with your sheer size, bulk, and mass moving around nearly silently, fluidly, like flowing from one place and position to another? It’s wild.”

She paused a moment, then added: “So how do you feel about it? That way of moving?”

I tapped a claw on my armored chin, thinking. “Predatory, maybe?” Threads started to coalesce in my head, winding and weaving together. I was onto something, something that excited me.

“Yes! Exactly, that’s perfect.”

I heard someone driving a big truck down what I assumed was a nearby road.

“Okay, so I think I know what to do to keep moving, and maybe fighting like that. It’s the overthinking things like you’re always saying, but also like, me thinking about moving in human ways that makes me jerky, uncoordinated.”

“I hate to put it this way.” I said with a sigh, “But I think I need to focus on moving more uh… instinctively, for lack of a better word at the moment.” It wasn’t a term I was happy with, but it’d have to do for now. I had a lot on my mind.

“That makes sense to me,” Victoria offered.

“I think I have a name.” I half-stated, half-asked her.

She raised an inquisitive brow.

“What about… Apex?” I asked her, a touch tentatively.

I felt a strong connection to the idea, the conversation we’d had just now, and the realization that this truly was a fundamental shift in tactics, fighting style, appearance, mannerisms, and identity. I could walk on two feet, sit down and eat a meal, and hold a conversation just fine.

Morgan Rivera hadn’t gone anywhere. But I couldn’t fight as Morgan Rivera, or her alter ego, Phoenix Strike. Lashing out with my claws, whipping with my tail, flapping my wings, leaping through the air, and landing on all fours. That was primal, a touch feral, fluid, terrifying, and mine.

I’d thought about names before. Kraken, Mako, Chimera: creatures. Brutal, sure, but they only covered a piece of what I was. Predator? Wraith? Maw? Too villain-coded. Too obvious.

Apex wasn’t about how I looked. It wasn’t even about what I could do, not exactly. It was a feeling. A place on a scale. Not a hero. Not a villain. Apex sat outside that tug-of-war. A clarity of purpose to move where others wouldn’t.

Apex meant edge; it meant pinnacle, maybe not above others, but past what I used to be. Something beyond what the world expected of me.

It didn’t carry morality in the name. No expectations. No costume to match. It was clean. Sharp. A new shape to grow into.

It felt right.

“That is…” Victoria rocked her head a little as she thought. “That is a solid name. It’s got some weight to it, but then again, so do you.” She held her hands out towards my direction, forming two “L” shapes with her thumbs and forefingers, and framed my bulk like she was going to take a picture.

“Apex. Apex.” She sounded it out, rolling the word around in her mouth. “Yeah. Hell yeah. That’s you.”

Headlights washed a beam of light across the room as that loud truck approached and skidded to a halt outside. Doors opened and closed, and a tailgate. A man’s voice sounded over the loud idling: “Hey, shitheads! We know you’re in there! Time to pay some tolls or you’re gonna get fucked up!”

Victoria and I shared a look.

Chapter Text

“I think I know who that is,” Victoria said. “You can hang back—maybe get the drop on them if it comes to that. I’ll see if I can talk them down first.”

I nodded and slipped around the inner walls of the building so I would keep out of sight from where the lights were shining through the partially open hangar doors. I couldn’t peek out the windows that ring the upper-level catwalks surrounding the inside of the building without potentially exposing myself.

I squatted behind the door, where I would be able to hear any interactions just fine. My heart was pounding in my chest, my breath deep. I felt amped up.

If this got violent, I wasn’t staying inside. Principle over prudence. If this is a gang, I won’t leave Vic- Glory Girl out to dry. Not that she couldn’t handle it on her own, but it’s the principle.

I felt my hair squirming and coiling on my shoulders.

Is this it? The debut of Apex?

My attention was diverted as Glory Girl stepped out of the doorway.

The truck or car revved up several times with a series of loud backfires, and then that same man’s voice called out: “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Glory Bitch! What’s the Bay’s golden girl doing smashing and crashing around in our trainyards?”

Victoria’s voice, loud and clear: “Your trainyards? I must have missed seeing your names on it somewhere.”

Your names. She’s telling me there are a couple or more of them.

A screechy laugh sounded, another male voice, higher-pitched, reedy, annoying: “Better get your vision checked! Our tags are all over this whole place!”

Victoria, affecting a bored demeanor: “Gang tags? The paint on the cars and buildings is half an inch thick, with the amount of graffiti on them. Am I supposed to know which one is yours?”

Screechy came back with a retort: “The ones on top! Idiot!”

The truck beeped twice, and the sound made my ears ring.

Fuck, that’s loud!

The first male voice rang out once again: “You want to fuck around up here, you pay the TOLL! You think you can just fly around and do whatever you want? This is our turf!”

Glory Girl had that same mildly bored voice responding back: “Does it look like I have pockets? And please. This place is two steps away from being a landfill. Turf? Don’t make me laugh.”

I heard her shift around, maybe pacing. “Besides, what’s stopping me from just flying away? Let’s face it. You’re out of your league.” Her voice took on an edge: “Hop back in your oversized truck and save what little face you have left right now.”

The first man’s voice came back with a snarl: “We’re not running away from the likes of you! You pissed me off now, we’re gonna kick your ass! Or are you gonna fly home to mommy!?” I heard Glory Girl stop walking back and forth, her boot grinding on the concrete and gravel. “Or are you gonna run? Get her!”

Oh hell. So much for not getting into a fight.

The truck’s engine roared, and tires squealed. I hopped straight up to get a glance through the windows before I went out. I liked Glory Girl’s idea of surprising them. A willowy guy was squared off with Victoria; there was a blob of some kind of trash with the upper torso and head of a scrawny guy sticking out of it, and a truck…thing that looked like it came from some Aleph wasteland apocalypse movie fishtailing and spinning around.

Ugh. It’s the Merchants. This is what happens when parahumans become crackheads. Or is it the other way around?

I landed on my feet and tried to gauge their relative positions on the other side of the door. I didn’t want to potentially mess up Vicky, but I knew worst case, she could potentially take getting clobbered by the door.

Fuck it. Here I come.

I took a few steps back, dropped to all fours, and let the idea take shape. Not original—just Victoria’s idea, cranked up to 11. I’d surprise them, scare them, get them on the back foot. I’d go hard on it, too. Apex was about to make an impact in her…their first encounter.

I charged the massive two-story hangar door, dropped a shoulder, and crashed into it. My goal was to knock it clean off the track and send it flying into the scrap heap truck.

It worked, partially. I hadn’t cooked the idea long enough in my head to really take into account the sheer surface area and wind resistance that door would have. I slammed into it hard enough to cave the middle like it had been hit by a tractor-trailer. It tore off the track, skidded a dozen feet, then flopped onto its face. It crashed flat, directly in front of blob-boy Mush, and king crackhead, Skidmark.

I stopped myself with a flap of my folded wings. Top arms braced on my knuckles. Back legs coiled, ready to spring. My tail lashed behind me, smooth and sinuous. I took a huge lungful of air, dropped my vocal cords low, and tried to bellow at them. To call my attempt a resounding success would be an understatement.

What came out wasn’t a yell. It was guttural, full-throated, a roar that rattled the windows behind me and shook the air. Skidmark fell on his ass, and his eyes looked like they were going to pop clean out of his skull. Mush screamed in a decidedly undignified way.

The truck-thing swerved up on two wheels, pulled up next to them, and Skidmark practically leaped into the bed of the vehicle. I stood up on two legs, four arms held wide like I was about to drop some wrath of god biblical shit on them, my wings flared out, tail lashing behind me.

I started to run towards them. Mush was halfway up into the back of the truck, and Skidmark was screaming: “Go! GO!” Squealer, who I presumed was driving, floored it, and the truck screeched and took off, sparks shooting out from the base of Mush’s pile of junk as he struggled to get up into the back of the truck.

I dropped onto all fours, dug my claws in, and gave chase. I was catching up to them, although I wasn’t terribly intent on actually catching them. A big, cylindrical gun of some sort popped out of the hood of the cab, rotated, and fired at me with a fwoomp!

A cargo net shot towards me, and I flapped my wings and dodged to the side with plenty of room to spare. I got within arm’s reach of the back of the truck and lashed out with a swipe of one big arm. My claws tore a huge hole in the rear panel of the vehicle and ripped the bumper entirely off.

I gave them another roar for good measure, skidded to a stop, grabbed the bumper, and hurled it at them as they drove off. It was heavy metal, a solid thing, and it flew well. I wasn’t seriously aiming for them. It crashed into the road they’d pulled onto alongside them with a small explosion of asphalt that clanged and clattered against the side of the truck.

I squatted down and stuck my tongue out to lick some crud off one of my eyes without even thinking about what I was doing, then spat it on the ground. The tail lights of the truck lit up, and it swerved in an intersection and disappeared around a warehouse.

I looked down at my massive right hand and flexed my clawed fingers. During the landing and subsequent chase, I’d moved just like we talked about. It felt natural to me, even over the grumbling protests of my rational mind.

Victoria floated up next to me, and she was holding her sides, cackling and wheezing.

I turned my head to look over at her directly, let my tongue hang out of my mouth, and said: “Bark bark.”

She gasped for breath and said: “St-stop-please, oh my god, I am going to die if you don’t!”

That could have gone badly. But it didn’t.

I switched back to the voice that passed for normal when I was like this. I was aware I didn’t sound like myself, or even particularly female for that matter, but right now? I didn’t care in the slightest. “I feel a little bad about that. But I’d rather feel a touch guilty than face the consequences of potentially hospitalizing someone, even if it is loathsome people like that.”

Victoria wiped her eyes with the backs of her index fingers and shook her head slowly. “Don’t you dare feel guilty or apologize for doing something like that. Those people,” she snarled the word people, before continuing: “Sell all sorts of drugs to anyone. Kids. People who can’t afford to eat.” Her voice was dripping acid: “I hope they pissed their pants and have nightmares for a month. They deserved that.”

I sat upright, rolling my neck and shoulders, and glanced back at the warehouse. “I’m going to go see if I can’t fix that door real quick.” I jogged over to it. I stepped on it and used my weight to mostly flatten out the sheet metal where it’d caved in from the impact. There were a few tears in it and broken welds, but that wasn’t something I could fix.

I took a look at the rollers, then picked it up and managed to hook it back onto the stout track it was meant to roll on. With a screech, I slid it closed, and Victoria re-did the chain around the broken handle so it was closed and locked to a passing glance. She took one of the bolts that had pulled through the door when she broke the handle and stuck it back through the base plate of the handle and into the steel of the door like it was an oversized thumb tack.

It’d have to do.

“I’m hungry,” I commented, half to myself.

“Yeah, me too. Snacks this afternoon wore off a couple of hours ago.”

“You could’ve said something, you know.” I grabbed the duffel bag I’d left on top of a boxcar outside the door with my clothing and our empty bottles and snack wrappers in it, looked at it for several long minutes, and then slung it around my neck.

“Are you going to change back? Then we can go get something to eat?” I looked up at the night sky, not as visible now with the light pollution from the city. I searched my feelings. I was riding an emotional high right now. A fight I’d won without throwing a punch. Nobody had gotten hurt. I was smiling, but it wasn’t visible under my helmet slash mask.

“Or…?” Victoria let the question linger in the once-again quiet area.

“You know,” I paused a moment, thinking things through at a surface level. “I don’t think I am.”

Being a cape is a pretty weird experience. Deja vu bubbled up. “Brocton Bay might not be entirely ready for me, or maybe they are. I don’t know. But I don’t think I-I don’t think Apex is the kind of creature to hide away. I don’t want to be in the limelight, I’m not ready for that yet, but I’m not going to slink around, either.”

“Creature?” She asked, a note of concern present.

“An idea for a persona. Not a dumb beast, not feral, and not a monster, but something in a similar vein. A creature, a dire beast, I think, was what Dragon said. I might lean into more of that from just now.” I gestured at the door. “If I can tap into that fear, use it constructively to avoid or end fights and confrontations? That’s like the ideal scenario in my mind.”

“Hmm. Maybe, yeah. My aura works like that. It scares people I want to scare and inspires people I want to inspire. It can work out really well sometimes, but not everyone responds or reacts to fear the same way. Some people get the fight reaction and get aggressive instead of backing down. Are you ready to escalate in those situations and throw gasoline on that fire?”

I contemplated for a moment. “I think I am. And I think I’m more capable now than ever before if they do want to pull a weapon or rush me.”

She laughed briefly and bobbed her head: “Yes, there’s no doubt about that. Worst case, try the persona out, if it doesn’t work, give up the game.”

I reached up a clawed human hand, unzipped my bag on my upper chest, and fished around carefully before pulling out my wallet. I pulled out a few middling denomination notes and held it out to Victoria. She took them and tilted her head.

“Let’s hit Fugly Bob’s. Can you order for me? I’m paying for both of us.”

She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, and sighed, then said: “Fine. I know you heard me talk about not having a wallet earlier.”

I crossed my human-like lower arms over my chest and said, “Please. You’ve got a forcefield. I’ve got tentacle hair. If either of us can’t smuggle a couple of twenties, we’re just not trying.”

She couldn’t hold back a grin. Kneeling down, she stuffed the notes into what looked like an elasticized pocket in the top of her just-below-the-knee boots. When she stood back up, she asked me, “What do you want, anyway?”

“What’s that one tourist trap burger called? The impossible?”

“No, uh… The challenger.” She replied.

“I want two of those bad boys. And a whole pitcher of iced tea, just for me.” I dropped my voice a touch lower, then patted the hard plates over my lower abdomen with one lower hand, and rumbled: “Apex hungry.”

She rolled her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes with a groan.

We took to the sky and made our way over to the boardwalk at a lazy pace and a low altitude, maybe a hundred or two hundred feet up. I flew slowly and easily. We’d both noticed that any time I really shifted my bulk around in anything resembling a nimble or acrobatic maneuver, I created downright wicked blasts of wind and swirling vortexes. The incredible thing was that I could do them in the first place, but I wasn’t a true mover. Newton had things to say about my darting around, and I’d toppled a fair few trees earlier at low altitudes.

Low and slow. Gentle starts, stops, and wide banks. Those weren’t too bad. More helicopter flying overhead and less jet blasts sending things flying. Cutting flaps before landing helped with the downwash, and so did leaping into the air on takeoff.

I suspected that my wings stopping before a landing had more to do with them not impacting the ground or obstructions than it did with anything else. The membranes of my wings were pretty durable from the little bit of poking and prodding I’d done on them so far, but I doubted very much that they were durable enough to be smacking into trees, light poles, or the ground without getting damaged.

One thing I was still getting used to—besides the fact I could fly, which was awesome—was how my wings moved, felt, and sounded. I’d expected them to flap faster, maybe when I was flying fast, and they did, sorta, but not in the way I had imagined in my head.

Flying slow like this, they flapped at one speed. If I flew four or five times faster than this, I didn’t flap four or five times faster, maybe half again as fast. I did flap harder, and my wings were moving through a wider range of motion.

Slow like this, it was a throbbing thrum, loud, rhythmic, and there was an almost musical quality to it. When I was flying fast or maneuvering hard, the sound shifted somewhat dramatically. Layered, rolling pulses of whump-whump-whump. Sharp banks, rolls, or pitch changes caused my wings to make sounds like canvas snapping and slapping on a sailboat over the thumping bass backing track. I could feel vortexes and turbulence smack into the sides of my tail as it whipped around to assist in my maneuvers, far out behind me.

Flying is fucking amazing. Even if I could roll back the clock, go back to being my previous normal… losing this? Hard sell.

We approached Fugly Bob’s, glowing burger sign and smoky air calling to me like a beacon. My mouth was watering. My nerves singing a little too.

People in window seats were leaning in their booths to try and see whatever weird tinkertech aircraft was approaching. I was thankful that the dining patio wasn’t facing the side we were landing on. Glory Girl swooped down and landed with effortless grace. I could see people pointing at her, smiling, and waving to their friends.

I cut my flapping and dropped from higher than usual, doing my best to land with even a fraction of Victoria’s grace. I came down in the middle of an empty spot in the parking lot. My feet touched the pavement, and I eased into the resistance on my legs.

My tail thudded into the asphalt, and I came to a stop in a deep squat. I didn’t crater the parking lot. I lifted one paw up, looked down, and saw there was a very cleanly defined imprint of one humongous foot, grippy pads, and claw slices included. It’d make for a cool stamp.

I glanced at the people in the restaurant and on the patio. People were looking and pointing as they had with Glory Girl. There weren’t any smiles or people waving. There wasn’t any screaming or fleeing either, as far as I could tell. I’d take that as a small victory. I think the presence of Glory Girl with me, and her unconcerned posture, was what was selling it.

She looked back at me and waved me forward in a performative manner before heading for the entrance. I thought about the image I wanted to project. My wings were retracting and folding, and I gave them a little buzz as they went down my back to their resting position. Not moving any air, really, just a little shake.

I reached first one upper arm, then the other out, and rather than adopt the gorilla-like knuckle walk, I flexed my three fingers out, fully extending them and bending them back so I could place my weight on the pads of the fingers and not the claws. I wasn’t out to trash the parking lot.

I tucked my thumbs against my palm; there was no amount of bending I could do to avoid those claws piercing the pavement, with their more aggressive curve than my other three fingers. My fingertips accepted my weight just fine, and it was perfectly comfortable. I could feel just a little squish under the pads of my fingers and paws, but I wasn’t leaving anything but very shallow, surface-level imprints behind.

I slinked forward, thinking about that uncanny agility we’d discussed, channeling my inner mutated panther. My mask with its many eyes was still on: I’d never taken it down, or off, or whatever. That was the face of Apex: a hard exoskeletal helm built from tentacles, covered in eyes, and a hinged, plated jaw.

Apex, the many-eyed, many-limbed, tentacled, winged creature brought to life like some Lovecraftian horror. I was pretty sure I could do everything with the mask on that I could do with it off.

My face underneath, while twice the size and still quite alien, bore a passing resemblance to Morgan Rivera—like her distant cousin with a slightly different ethnicity.

From Neptune.

While Glory Girl went in to order, I partially rounded the corner of the building to where the patio seating was located. There were a handful of tables that weren’t under the roof of the patio, and one was handicap accessible.

Perfect.

I came up to the side of the table where wheelchairs were intended to go and got into position to settle down to eat. My big arms were too thick and hard in the forearm section to fold over one another, so I folded them, one in front of the other, and slid them forward and mostly under the table. I also brought my lower arms forward and rested them over the top of my big arms, also under the table.

Legs folded under me, I rested on my chest plates and curled my tail around one side before laying it on the concrete. I didn’t want someone to trip on it in the dark and faceplant on their way to their car. With my expanded vision, I was aware of the fact that I had adopted a sort of pose reminiscent of the Great Sphynx.

People were murmuring to themselves and making some attempt not to gawk. I heard clicks, snaps, and other sound effects of phone cameras going off. I wasn’t doubting that there were posts going up on PHO in real time, maybe even a mobile livestream or two.

I caught snippets:

“...is that thing?”

“It, he, whatever showed up with Glory Girl…”

“Is that what that sound was?”

“Ugly…”

“Horrible…”

“...call someone?”

Some of the words hit, and they slid straight through my armored, plated hide to pierce my heart.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I’m making a huge mistake right now.

Glory Girl came out with a giant pitcher of iced tea in one hand and a still-huge but more normal-sized cup of the same in her other hand. She smiled as she walked over, and I wasn’t sure if she was putting it on for appearances or if she meant it. She put the pitcher and cup down and took a seat opposite me on the bench built into the table.

“Food should be out shortly, and the order has the staff buzzing! I don’t think they’re going to honor that whole ‘eat it all and it’s free’ deal after I had to point you out. So it was expensive. There was a decent chunk of change left over, so I left it as a tip for them.”

I grunted and gave a slight nod. An attractive waitress wearing a short skirt and a tight shirt came out to our table and put down napkins, silverware, and a carrier with condiments. I held still; I didn’t want to startle her. I also… might have let my eyes wander, just a bit. They were all solid black, so it wasn’t like you could tell what I was looking at.

“Food should be out shortly, give a shout if you need a refill in the meantime!” She left at a quick pace, but I got the impression it was more due to the restaurant being pretty busy on a Saturday night than because she was trying to get away from me.

Glory Girl rested her elbow on the table and propped her head in her palm. Her voice was low enough that it was clear this was a us conversation.

“So this is weird…” I dipped my head in agreement. “...I think I need to go out with you more often when I’m doing public appearances in costume like this.” I’d blink if I could. That wasn’t the way I expected this conversation to go at all.

I tilted my head, and she continued: “I’m normally the center of attention unless I’m with my family, you know?” She looked over to the patio and waved at nobody in particular. A few people waved back. “Yeah, you’ve got the attention, big time.” She paused a beat, then beamed at me and exclaimed: “This is great!”

I snorted, and she laughed. A few minutes passed, and she chatted a little more, and I stayed mostly quiet. I wasn’t sure to what extent I wanted to break the silence, and she got it. We were on the same wavelength. I… liked it.

Our burgers arrived. Two comically large ones for me sat in equally large aluminum trays. Each one was stacked high with toppings, cut in half, and had several toothpicks pinning the pile of buns, meat, and toppings together. There was also a big striped paper tray loaded with fries, one for each burger. One was covered in cheese, bacon, and some kind of house sauce. The other was covered in Cajun seasoning, as far as I could tell.

Glory Girl had a ‘normal size’ but still humongous cheeseburger and a tray of sweet potato fries. I looked at our food, the smells assaulting my sense of smell and tying my stomach into knots. I also saw steam, or maybe fog, drifting up from where the patties were sliced in half, and over each basket of fries. I looked at the aura around Victoria; it was a similar color and texture, but not identical. It also didn’t obstruct or block my vision at all, like it was layered into it. Suddenly, it clicked for me.

It’s heat. Thermal vision. But maybe only parts of my eyes, or some eyes specifically, see it, and it’s being mixed? Cool. Now time to figure out how to eat with this mask on.

I reached out with a few tentacles and grabbed a fork and knife to cut each of the burgers a second time, into more manageable quarters. Then I plucked out the toothpicks and managed to lift and transport a quarter of the burger to my mouth with a pair of tentacles without creating a terrific mess of things. Opening my full jaw wide and sticking out my tongue just a little, I made contact and guided it in before chomping down and chewing it up.

Flavors exploded in my mouth, which distracted me from the sensation of chewing with far and away too many teeth. It was delicious, and my taste buds and body felt like it was singing out in joy at the greasy, fatty, sauce-covered, and nutrient-dense calorific bomb I’d just swallowed.

I was also well aware of people pointing phones at me, eating with my hair, pointing, and gossiping. I wasn’t going to pay them any mind right now.

I ate another quarter, trying my best not to eat too loudly, as my mask lacked lips. I think it wasn’t too bad, considering I only had to chew a couple of times, if that, before swallowing. Glory Girl picked up on my attempt not to be gross and giggled. For her part, she’d tucked into her food and was doing a heck of a number on her own meal. Credit where credit was due, Victoria could eat.

“So good,” I said in a low rumble intended for the two of us, and she nodded emphatically.

“Yeah, they’re on their A-game tonight. Which, you know, makes sense. Busy night, fresher food, full staff, yadda, yadda.” She wiped her mouth on her napkin and added, “Panacea and I come over here every once in a blue moon, but it’s rare. A special treat, like hitting a soul food joint. Places like this will destroy your figure otherwise, and Mom would lose her shit.” She rolled her eyes.

With a once-over at my unusual position, she said: “Probably not your figure, though.”

I snorted, and we mowed down our food. Drinking from the pitcher was a touch tricky when it was really full, but I only spilled a little down my front. The liquid, like pretty much everything else, didn’t stick to my skin at all. Instead, it beaded up and rolled off like water off a duck’s back.

Small blessings.

I wound up just eating the lemon wedges in the tea rather than fussing about trying to pick them out. When I was done, I stuck the tentacles I’d eaten with through the jaw slot on my helmet and slurped them clean like noodles.

Glory Girl cackled at the sight.

Just as we were finishing our meal, a young boy no older than ten broke away from his mother and ran over to Glory Girl and me.

“Ethan!” His mother’s voice was sharp, but he wasn’t listening.

“Hi, Glory Girl!” He said, his voice loud and energetic, at meeting a real-life superheroine.

She giggled a little and said, “Hello, Ethan, I think your mom wants you.”

He shifted from foot to foot, and went: “Yeah,” then pointed at me and asked her: “Can I pet him!?”

Oh. My. God.

Glory Girl clapped her hand over her mouth and looked at me, her eyes sparking and chest heaving. Only wheezing a little, she answered Ethan: “Sure, he’s friendly. Unless you’re a bad guy!”

I was dying a little on the inside, but I tilted my head over to the side, and Ethan petted my tentacles. His Mom looked like she was about to pass out. His dad was snickering.

As much as I hated it, I had to admit it felt pretty good.

Chapter Text

Four days had passed. It was Wednesday afternoon, and I was currently being cornered by my sister in a bathroom at Arcadia. It was just the two of us; I was backed against the sink, butt resting on the counter, and arms crossed over my chest defensively.

The door opened, and a raven-haired girl walked in, and the look Melody gave her as she turned to face the intruder could have driven nails in the wall.

She backpedaled. “I’m going to go…” and the door hissed shut.

Melody turned back to me, jabbing a finger into my chest again.

“No more bullshit. No more excuses. No more lies. I have the car, I have permission to be out after school, and I will follow you back to your place–holding up traffic the whole way if I have to.”

I swatted her hand away and rubbed my forehead. “Fine, fuck!” I snapped, already annoyed by the way she was acting. “Why can’t you respect that I said this weekend would be better?”

“Because!” She stomped a sneaker and raised her voice. “Mom gets to see it. Dad gets to see it. Vicky and Amy get to see it, and now maybe others too, and I’m being left high and dry!? Your twin sister!?”

I was going to get a migraine, and not from holding my shape since 6 AM, working out, sparring, and attending school after. Or maybe on top of that.

I took a breath and spoke, as calmly and level-headed as I could: “I told you this weekend would be better because I’d actually like to spend time with you over for more than a few hours. I have career stuff I’m doing tonight, so I’m only going to be there for a few hours before I have to leave.”

Melody leaned forward again, and I looked up at her from my lowered brow. “I’m not entirely sure that I trust you about that, either. But good. Fine. We’re going. Grab your stuff, I’m giving you a ride over. I don’t want you trying to pull a fast one and ditching me.”

“Okay, Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes. She glared at me but didn’t say anything else, at least temporarily placated.

We stopped at her locker, got her bag and stuff, hit my locker, did the same, and were out in the parking lot and cruising over to my place within ten minutes. I was a little nervous about this. I did not want her, or the ‘rents, to know that I was Apex, who’d been all over the news and the central topic of debate since first thing Sunday morning.

We would be back at my place around 2:45 or so, which gave me about an hour and a half before we started progressing into the sheer misery territory of holding my shape.

I still hadn’t found the hard limit yet, but things started going downhill fast after around eleven hours.

“Take a right here, there’s a wide alley right before you get to the buildings at the far-left corner of the block, turn left down it, and then left into any of the parking spots.”

My place was an old commercial building converted into a deep, narrow, two-story apartment. It had roof access too, so I could garden or hang laundry up there, but I hadn’t used it yet. The lack of any kind of pillars inside didn’t exactly inspire confidence. I wouldn’t go straight through the roof.

I’d been sneaking out each night to explore and test things, mostly sticking to the air and the emptier, gang-infested parts of town where people stayed inside after dark. I’d kept building on the working theories Victoria and I had pieced together Saturday night, before my first fight and big burger debut.

Practicing predator parkour in heavier structures, getting better at maneuvering around on all fours, being mindful of my body, and stuff like that. It was also where I’d discovered that most rooftops were boobytraps in disguise.

As Phoenix Strike, rooftop running, leaping between buildings, jumping up or down one or even two-story drops were no problem at all. I wouldn’t do it on residential roofs, but basically, everything else was fair game. The rooftops were my express highway through the city.

But now? Oh boy.

Getting up or down from buildings was easy; I could vault a first-story rooftop in a single hop. Staying on them? That was the problem. Industrial roofs held. Commercial ones? Dicey. I’d already punched through two gravel-top roofs like wet cardboard. On others, I’d heard creaking, cracking, and snapping beneath me.

Being on all fours helped. So did dragging my tail around like some kind of overgrown alligator. I wasn’t sure how much the buildings’ abandonment or disrepair was playing into things. I wasn’t about to risk wrecking newer and in-use buildings just for the sake of learning or a bit of fun.

I was getting a lot better at moving around on all fours. It dramatically lowered my visible profile. I was still huge–the size of a large van, tail not included–but I wasn’t able to extend my legs and peek in a second-story window. No clear winner in the two-limb versus four-limb locomotion debate yet. Upright, I had reach and free arms, and I could lean way forward while running or fighting using my tail. On all fours, I could reposition dynamically: explosive launches and dodges, even without using my wings, which were a multiplier to everything.

We pulled in and parked behind my apartment. I glanced up at the second-story window where my bedroom was. Where Panacea and Glory Girl had broken into my place. I’d glued the latch back into place so it looked untouched, but I’d jammed a chunk of wood in the frame so it couldn’t be opened without breaking the glass.

“This is me,” I said from the passenger seat, lazily gesturing with the back of my hand.

“This?” Melody leaned forward, peering up at the second story. “This looks like it used to be one of those little street-level stores.”

“Pretty sure it was, yeah. It’s not too bad inside. The layout’s weird, but I like it. Doesn’t bother my claustrophobia.” I unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbed my bag from the back seat, and climbed out of the car. I leaned back in through the open door. “Well, let’s go, you wanted to be over here so bad, and daylight’s burning.”

I shut the door and headed for the back door. Melody was climbing out of Mom’s car and locking it while I fished my key out and unlocked my back door, which led straight into the kitchen. I hoped I hadn’t left anything too incriminating or suspicious lying around.

Melody walked up and poked at the bars over my kitchen window. All the ground-floor windows had them. Painted white to match the building exterior, they were thick, heavy things and not the decorative kind I’d seen elsewhere in the bay. These were bolted into the wall and weren’t screwed in with dinky little fasteners.

I undid the last lock and pulled the door open, stepping inside. Melody came in behind me, commenting, “Security a little overkill? You’re not that far from the Boardwalk.”

I sighed. “A touch, but Mom absolutely insisted. There was a place I liked a bit more in my price range two blocks down, but she wasn’t budging.”

The inside of my apartment was dark thanks to the layout. Where there might have been a bay door or big glass storefront, it had been bricked up and replaced with smaller, more residential-looking windows. Combined with the solid brick walls running the length of either side, it meant the interior lights had to do most of the heavy lifting.

I didn’t mind it. I flicked the lights on, nudged the door shut with my heel, and threw the locks back into place. Mom might have ticked me off a little by overruling my pick, but I had to admit, this place was secure against most types of foul play or ganger bullshit. Steel doors. Multiple deadbolts. Bars on the windows.

Sure, someone with a ladder could get in, but this wasn’t that kind of neighborhood. Something like that would get the cops called.

I winced a little at the nest on the kitchen floor, along with the alarm clock sitting next to the wall. Melody’s gaze fell on it, and then she turned and looked at me with one brow arched.

“Break the bed already, party animal?” she teased, and I felt just a touch less nervous. The weird layout might’ve raised a brow, but the normalcy seemed to cool her jets. No signs of drugs, binge eating, or whatever else she’d been imagining meant she could lower her hackles for now.

“Har, har, har. Still haven’t slept with anyone. Too busy to bother changing that.” I quipped, clipping my keys to my lanyard. I was rocking a pleated short skirt today. It was a bit unseasonably warm this week, and I’d been enjoying the wardrobe liberties the heat allowed. “Help yourself to the fridge, food, drink, whatever. Some bottles in the back.”

Melody glanced down at my lanyard. It was a PRT lanyard from the gift shop, one I’d had since before working there. “Surprised you’re wearing that, with everything that happened.”

I let out a long sigh and unlaced my sneakers to set them on the little rack by the back door. When I was done, I grabbed a sports drink from the fridge and made my way to my living room. I plopped my ass unceremoniously on the sofa. Melody rummaged through my freezer and fridge before grabbing cold bottled water and coming over to the couch and joining me.

The lid of my drink snapped as the safety seal broke, and I took a deep swig. I was hoping that staying hydrated would help with the brewing headache from my power.

“I mean… What’s there to say? Sure, I’m bitter. I still believe in the mission. My friends still work there and still have bright futures. I’m honestly happy for them. I want to see them succeed.”

Melody kicked off her sneakers and threw her feet up on the sofa between us. I waved a hand in front of my nose and coughed.

“Oh shut the fuck up. Every soccer player gets athlete’s foot now and again, and I don’t have it.”

I smirked and took another drink.

Her tone shifted from playful annoyance to something sharper. “I don’t understand what happened with you and them. I feel like there are things you haven’t been entirely honest about with Mom and Dad. I looked at your paperwork, but that’s all legal gobbledygook. What aren’t you saying?”

I considered ribbing her–maybe she’d understand better if she hadn’t slapped me and stormed off halfway through–but thought better of it. I rubbed my forehead. She was, as usual, too perceptive for her own good. Or mine. I screwed the cap back on my bottle and looked over at her.

“Some of the members of the Protectorate, including people I barely know and who make my head spin, went to bat for me. I think the PRT was either neutral or maybe leaning slightly in my favor. But ultimately, the decision came down to Armsmaster. He’s the one who decides who makes the cut, assuming the PRT doesn’t object.”

“So he just gets to play sink or swim, to pick winners and losers, and that’s it?” She demanded, angry now.

“Yes, Mel. That’s that. It’s like pissing off a head coach and getting sidelined, but in a much bigger way.” I said.

“This is your career! Your future! You were good, great! People loved you.”

I held up my index and middle fingers in a V towards her.

“Two things. One,” I dropped my middle finger. “My future and my career are only his business if he’s invested in them, and he wasn’t.”

I gave her a second to let that land, then dropped the other finger. “Two: I wasn’t. I really wasn’t popular."

“So what did you do to piss him off?” she asked, still a bit testy.

“That’s the thing. I didn’t. I don’t even-” I took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “I don’t even blame him. I asked him to be honest with me, and he was. Total asshole delivery, he’s apparently not great with people, but it was the honest truth.”

“Which was?”

“More Wards are graduating this year than they have room or budget to accommodate. I was the weakest pick of the bunch, so I didn’t make the cut.” I surprised myself with how neutral my voice was when I said it.

“What about a reserve roster?” she asked, her voice softening.

I chuckled and said, “I asked the same exact thing. They don’t do that. They told me I could relocate and get a spot with another PRT division, but not here in the Bay.”

Melody looked away and took a swig of her water. After a few long moments of silence, she said, “I just don’t understand why you won’t take that offer. Why do you need to move out and do this abrupt, hard detour all of a sudden?”

I pushed back against her, firmly: “Yes, you do. You absolutely do.”

Her eyes darted back over to stare into mine.

“You’ve busted your ass trying to get into BBU’s soccer program. If they told you there was a paperwork error and they couldn’t bring you on, but they could get you a spot on a lower-division team across the country, would you just take it?”

Her jaw flexed, and her knuckles whitened around the bottle cap. After a long, increasingly uncomfortable silence, she closed her eyes and let out an explosive sigh.

“I want so, so fucking badly to say you’re wrong. That’s not the same. That it’s not fair, what you’re doing to me.” Her voice grew thick with emotion. Anger and grief.

I didn’t say anything.

“...But no. No, I wouldn’t. If there was another university competing with BBU, I’d join their team and then go make BBU look like fools on the field.”

The muscles in her jaw twitched and rolled. She took a deep breath, unscrewed her bottle, and drank.

I stuffed my bottle between the back cushions of the sofa, crawled over to her, and held my arms out. She capped her bottle and wrapped her arms around me, practically crushing me. I hugged her back just as tightly. After what felt like a couple of minutes, we broke apart, and I slumped back into my spot.

“I want to see the rest of this place. Not sure if I like it or hate it yet.”

I rolled my eyes, got up, and followed her upstairs. She rooted around in my space, invading my privacy more than a little, but whatever it took to get her off my case at the moment, I’d put up with it. I still thought she was being paranoid, but as much as I loved her, if she suddenly started acting weird, I would probably do the same.

When she was finally satisfied, she issued her official judgment: “It’s a little weird, but not terrible. The layout’s basic, the bathroom’s nice, you spent too much on that showerhead, and your kitchen sucks. And you need decor. Posters or something. It’s too Spartan and white right now.”

“Wow, not holding back, huh? I’ll try to hang some aesthetically pleasing decor before Her Majesty, Melodious the Magnificent, graces me with her next visit.”

We kept chatting, and she stayed over too long, but I couldn’t bring myself to kick her out. I was really enjoying having my sister back in my life, in a space that felt safe.

It felt like my pulse was ringing in my brain like a hammer striking a bell as we ticked past five o’clock. I felt weak and shaky, like I had low blood sugar, and I was sweating. I was trying to get Melody out before things got worse, reminding her I had to take a shower and head out soon.

“What about a key? Mom said you wouldn’t let them have one at all. Can I have one?” she asked.

Stabbing cramps twisted in my gut, but I tried not to let them show.

“I have to give you the same answer I gave Mom and Dad. While I try and build my career, I might be having meetings or talking to people in here who have their masks off. Privacy and trust are everything when it comes to capes trying to work together. With everything that’s happened, I can’t risk a one percent chance that one of you walks in to drop off food or say hi and sees something you shouldn’t. I’m out of other options.”

She scrunched up her face, then gave a reluctant nod. At the back door, she held out her arms for a hug, and I gave her one.

“You feeling alright? You’re like muy sweaty right now.”

“My stomach is a little upset. Bit crampy,” I said, this time not exaggerating. “I’m gonna clean up before I head out, don’t worry.”

Another cramp hit, sharper this time, and I clutched my abdomen with a groan.

“Well, take a rain check if you’re really sick. I’ll head out so you can go blow up the bathroom or whatever.”

“See you tomorrow at school?”

I nodded quickly, then added, “Unless I’m still feeling off. Might do class online if so.”

“Not a bad idea…” she said, trailing off. Then she turned, opened the door, and left.

I stepped into the doorway and called out, “Later, Mel!” as she got into the car. She waved, then started it up and pulled out.

I locked all the doors, dropped the blinds, stripped and dumped my clothing in the hamper, then bolted to the kitchen. I thought I might throw up. I checked my clock: 5:45.

I kicked my blankets and pillows to the carpet, shoved the table and chairs back against the counter, and cleared the floor.

My power surged in my head. I dropped to my knees and got ready to release the shape. Before I could, my abdomen seized. I barely got a hand over my mouth in time to catch the puke, keeping it from spraying everywhere. Two gushes later, it was all down my front and pooling on the floor.

It wasn’t vomit, didn’t smell like it. One glance down confirmed it.

Blood. Bright red, flecked with bubbles and spit.

And something else.

Thick black ichor. Sticky. Viscous.

I let go of the form, expecting the usual shift to start, but what came instead was wrong.

No shifting in my chest. No steady mass increase. No gentle retraction or expansion.

No.

I erupted. Apex tearing its way out of my human form in a spray of flesh and gore.

Agony tore through every part of me. My chest burned with spreading veins of liquid fire, carving outward.

I tried to scream, but couldn’t. Steam blasted from my throat and scalded my face. Things were tearing. Bones snapped like tree limbs. I barely registered the asymmetry of my form as it continually broke and reformed.

At some point, I collapsed on my side and curled into a ball. Every moment felt like the worst of my life. Until the next, which somehow managed to be worse. New sights. New sounds. New sensations.

Oh god. The sounds.

Bubbling. Hissing. Spraying. Splashing. Splattering. Crunching.

The sounds were somehow worse than the sensations.

Eventually, it ended.

I was exhausted, mentally and physically. I’d just endured hours of the worst torture I could have possibly imagined.

I blinked tears from my eyes and glanced at the glowing digits of my alarm clock. A spray of blood decorated the wall behind it.

5:49.

A deep sob wracked my chest, Apex’s chest.

I closed my eyes and rested. When I opened them again, it was 7:31. The pain was a memory. I felt better. Good, even. Physically.

I pushed myself up onto all fours, ready to spend the next couple of hours cleaning. But when I looked around the kitchen…

Nothing. Not a speck of the horror I remembered.

I searched everywhere. Every crack. Every nook and cranny, the undersides of the counter, table, chairs, and the grille of the alarm clock.

Nothing. Not a trace.

I was sure I hadn’t hallucinated it.

Had I?

I felt disoriented. Off-beat. Uncertain.

I didn’t know what scared me more:

That it had happened…

Or that there was no sign it ever had.

Chapter Text

A week and change had passed since the night I ran out the clock on holding a shape.

Trying to get a better handle on things, I plugged my journal entries into a spreadsheet and charted the data. The result? A neat little exponential curve of symptoms versus severity. Twelve hours was where the line just went vertical on the Y-axis–level of suck.

I didn’t know what would happen at twelve hours, and I didn’t want to.

From now on, anything past ten was officially redline territory. That matched up with what I’d been feeling: worsening headaches, mounting fatigue, and a shift back that was painful, but not… whatever that was last Wednesday.

Visualising the data helped me clarify something else I’d been wondering about.

If I just released the form and let things unfold naturally, the shift wasn’t a big deal–five minutes, maybe. Not even unpleasant.

Day by day, I was getting more used to being Apex. Shifting back into my real form felt like sinking into a hot bath. Unwinding. Stretching. Expanding.

Real form.

That was another thing I was starting to come to terms with.

My time as two-arms, two-legs, five-fingers-and-toes Morgan was limited. The euphoria I’d once felt returning to the body I was born in… it wasn’t hitting like it used to.

I missed flying. I missed the clarity. Seeing everything. Smelling everything. Being more.

Don’t get me wrong. I was still desperately lonely–more than I’d ever been–and every day was a fight on that front.

That was the real highlight of blonde-haired, blue-eyed, jock-girl Morgan.

The gym first thing in the morning. Sparring Brian. School lunch with friends. Visiting my sister and fixing the potholes in our relationship.

But.

Big butt. Big everything.

Being Apex resonated with me on a deep, cellular level.

Despite looking like the biological equivalent of a fully played-out Scrabble board, Apex was everything I’d wanted to be back when I was Phoenix Strike. Fast. Tough. Strong. Mobile.

Capable of insane feats–and still only scratching the surface.

I’d still been going out most nights. Flying around, gathering intel, tracking movement. Same as I used to.

In some ways, it was far easier now. I could move through the sky and see details from high above, crystal clear. Tracking thermal signatures through my mask made a huge difference. Especially in low light or bad weather.

But there were challenges, too. I couldn’t glide around silently like Glory Girl or other capes. Best-case scenario, I sounded like a weird biological helicopter.

The droning of my wings didn’t carry as far as rotor blades, but it was still loud enough to get noticed.

I’d seen Protectorate capes and some of the Wards, spot me mid-flight and start relaying my movements.

The way they looked up, the way they keyed their radios.

Dead giveaway, if you’ve ever been on the other side of it.

I wondered if they had the slightest inkling of who I really was.

If they found out, would they see past the thing I was and remember their old teammate and friend?

I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t reached out yet. Maybe I was still a little sore, like a burn that hadn’t fully scabbed over.

The PRT always had…let’s call it a “cool” relationship with independent capes. On a personal level, people were warm, even kind. But once the organization got involved? Everything turned “professional” real fast.

I had a few DMs waiting. Not answering Miss Militia weighed on me. She’d been nothing but good to me.

I’d also had a number of DMs in my inbox from villain groups in the area.

A warning from Purity, speaking for the Empire Eighty-Eight: stay off their turf and out of their business, or face the consequences.

Short and to the point.

E88 was local, large, and powerful. They had both the numbers advantage and arguably the power advantage, pound-for-pound.

Also literal Neo-Nazis, intensely racist white supremacists.

Their one saving grace–if it can even be called that–was that they seemed to be primarily interested in organized and white-collar crime.

Still, they were loathsome thugs united around a foul ideology rooted in the worst kinds of ignorance.

I fucking hate Nazis. I’ll kick their asses given the chance, but it’s tricky. For being ignorant pricks, they are tactically smart. Using their numbers advantage, not letting themselves get caught out easily.

Then there was the message in my inbox from Faultline. Also short and to the point.

She wished to meet peacefully to discuss matters relating to my appearance, my presence in the city, and my form.

She mentioned having a vested interest in Case 53s and other parahumans of a similar nature. Not Wards. Not villains. Just people who didn’t fit the mold.

People like me.

I had a standing invitation to visit her at her club, The Palanquin. It was open to the public, there wouldn’t be any funny business involved.

She ‘just’ wanted to talk offline.

I’d actually messaged her back and told her I’d consider it.

Faultline’s Crew, her rather unoriginally named band of parahumans, were villains by association.

It was one of the PRT’s policies that deeply rubbed me the wrong way.

According to PRT policy and established legal precedent, a villain wasn’t just someone who used parahuman abilities to commit a crime, spread havoc, or hurt people.

You could get villain status by being a known associate of a villain or villain organization, working with them, and a whole laundry list of other activities ranging from obvious to absurd.

Faultline’s Crew was largely ignored by the PRT and Protectorate.

They operated a club, open to the public, and could be found there most nights of the week they were in town. They traveled quite a bit, but it was the world’s worst-kept secret that was their spot.

The PRT didn’t go there and didn’t interfere in their business.

They were mercenaries, with guns, with powers, and they had a code of ethics about the kinds of jobs they’d do.

It was the subject of heavy speculation that Fautline’s Crew, along with other ‘black hat but gray area’ merc outfits around the country were able to skirt by thanks in part to back-channel PRT contracts. Cleaners, dirty laundry handlers, whatever you wanted to call it.

I, like many people, thought it likely that the speculation was credible.

I spent enough time in the PRT to know that when something smells like plausible deniability, it probably is.

Upon further reflection, I figured I’d visit them after all.

I wasn’t expecting a trap, and there was a lot I stood to learn.

Like what it was like for other capes like me.

Maybe I’d make some contacts, share intel on the chaos hitting the city, or, who knows, learn a thing or two about not getting eaten alive as an independent.

But I had to be careful.

Very careful.

The guilt-by-association garbage could still wind up with a proverbial noose around my neck.

I sent a DM back to Faultline while I was on that train of thought, then logged out of PHO and clapped my laptop shut.

I craned my neck over the back of the couch to look at my alarm clock. My guests would be over very soon.

Setting my laptop on the coffee table, I got up, stretched, and arranged the cushions on my sofa so it didn’t look quite as dilapidated.

Next up was picking up the wad of blankets and pillows from my kitchen floor, tossing them in the storage closet, and dragging my kitchen table and chairs to a not-weird location against the counter.

I glanced around. Still spartan. Still not a home.

I had a list of stuff I wanted to try and get. The other me was steadily filling my blankets with rips, cuts, and tears, and my pillows were pancaked, sorry things now.

I needed some kind of bed or something to relax in, or on, that wouldn’t look wildly out of place and raise eyebrows.

The more time I was spending in my real form, the more I was eating not-human-sized amounts of food.

The grocery runs were eye-watering even keeping costs down by buying really cheap stuff I’d never think about eating otherwise.

Organ meat. Bargain-bin bulk cuts.

Stuff flirting with its expiration date, or looked so dodgy the store was clearly just trying to recoup any loss at all.

Huge bags of frozen, crappy fish.

I had… been experimenting in ways that were probably horrifying.

I didn’t have a good way of defrosting a ten-pound bag of cod or cooking a giant slab of questionable freshness beef.

Also? I was famously bad at cooking. Family-legend levels of bad.

The point was: I was eating it raw, frozen, or both.

Fun snacks for your whole cryptid family.

It avoided the problem of people asking why I had 25 pounds of random meat in my fridge and a freezer full of seafood.

I’d get a day or two at a time, eat it, go back and get more.

I got a membership to one of those bulk food outlets and nobody even blinked twice at me buying giant wads of food.

I was just one of their average customers, probably a restaurant or food truck owner. A very weird food truck.

It also tasted better than what I was able to cook, but let’s not go there right now.

I checked my fridge. Two gallons of tea, Victoria had mentioned it was her favorite. The snacks were good.

I checked my phone and waited. Both the two Dallon sisters as well as my sister were on their way over. Melody driving the lot.

With everything going on, we all needed some time to breathe. To talk. To just be people for a little while.

My phone buzzed. I poked two fingers between the blinds to look in the back lot.

SUV, two blondes and a brunette hopping out. This was them.

I unlocked the back door and held it open.

Vicky led, followed by Amy, Melody came in last lugging a fat backpack. I closed and re-secured the door behind them.

“Why are your blinds always down like maximum isolationist creeper mode in here?” Melody asked the room.

I gave her a flat look.

“Really Melody?”

She stuck her hand on her hip and replied: “Yeah, really. You didn’t keep your blinds down constantly and your room wasn’t a dungeon at home.”

I pointed at Victoria: “Superhero.” Then Amy. “Superhero.” Myself next: “Unemployed superhero.”

I flicked my hand around and held up an index finger. “One: we like our privacy.”

“Regrettably…” Amy added.

“...Two, not the nice neighborhood of our house. Not terrible, of course.”

I held up a third finger, my voice stressing the final point: “Army deployed, heroes patrolling the streets, and the city randomly exploding!” I threw my arms up.

I stepped forward and clapped my hands on Melody’s shoulders and dramatically shook her, going: “Arghhhhhh!”

She burst out laughing, and I grinned.

I turned to the other guests. “Make yourselves at home, get comfy. Let’s catch up and relax. I want to hear all about…”

I tried to think of a tactful way of putting it, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to really soften things too much, with how fresh it was. “...the bank incident, but only if you can talk about it. Truly, though: no pressure at all if it’s too much.”

Amy rubbed her forearms and shrank in place.

Victoria held her hands up and went: “ARGH!! BUGS!”

Melody startled at the shout, then laughed.

We made our way over to the couch. I let the three of them have it, I put my laptop on the coffee table and took a bean bag on the other side of the table from them.

Melody unzipped her backpack. Video game console, controllers, and board games. She started hooking up the system to my TV.

“Where should we start?” Melody asked.

“Let’s just start with the bank.” Victoria this time.

“So how were you two there and involved in the first place?” I asked, continuing: “I didn’t think New Wave typically got involved in Wards operations? Or wait, was it the other way around?”

Amy responding surprised me a little.

“It was messy. Ugly,” she said. “I was already at the bank when they came in. Vicky was nearby. The Wards got dispatched, I think because something else was going on, and the Undersiders didn’t warrant a full response.”

“The Undersiders.” Vicky said, a bit quieter than usual.

It was strange to see the roles between the two Dallon sisters reversed.

I glanced up at the ceiling and recounted the members from the news I’d been following like a hawk: “Grue, Hellhound, Tattletale… Uh, Regent and…” My voice drifted off as I was having a hard time recalling the bug girl.

“Skitter.” Amy answered.

Victoria shivered.

“Gross,” Melody said. “Gross, but fitting. Nasty villain.”

“What uh-” I glanced over at Victoria, who was looking down at her lap.

I was deeply curious what had caused the shift in my friend.

“What happened?”

Amy met my eyes. Her voice was flat.

“Tattletale shot my sister with a handgun.”

“What!?” Melody and I said at the same time.

“It didn’t hurt her,” Amy said, glancing at Victoria, who gave a small nod. “But it broke her invincibility. Took her shield down.”

“Then Skitter hit her with bugs. Bites, stings, everywhere. And worse… they got in everywhere.”

She pointed at her mouth, then traced a slow circle around her face.

Melody reached over and hugged Victoria, who let her head rest on her sister’s shoulder.

That experience had hit Vicky hard.

Glory Girl was like teen Alexandria. Nothing touched her. A Brute who could throw cars and laugh while doing it.

But more than that, she radiated confidence. Even without her aura.

Seeing her like this was a big change.

Victoria took a deep breath and let it out.

“I’m okay. Really. I wasn’t badly hurt, it was mostly psychological.”

Amy crossed her arms.

“You were bitten and stung. You could’ve had a serious histamine reaction.”

“I didn’t. I’m not allergic. Don’t make it out to be more than it was,” Victoria said.

I got the distinct impression this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.

“Still.”

“Amy, please. I love how protective you are—but let’s stick to the facts, okay?”

I sank back in my beanbag, folding my hands behind my head and staring up at the ceiling.

My thighs were spread in a distinctly unladylike fashion, one foot tapping rapidly against the floor as I thought. Processing.

It’s fine, I’m wearing leggings, we’re all girls here anyway.

I caught Amy’s eyes flick toward me, quickly, then away.

Not the first time today.

Victoria’s eyes weren’t on me… but they weren’t not on me, either.

We made eye contact. I smiled. Held it. She looked away.

I stuck my tongue out at Melody. She rolled her eyes.

I went back to stewing.

Ideas were brewing.

“Okay, so. Let’s talk shop. Pardon us please, Melody. The Undersiders. Grue, Tattletale, Hellhound, Regent… and now Skitter.”

I paused a beat.

“They’re popping up more, right? The bank thing feels… different. More escalation than the usual hit-and-run. Same playbook, but tighter. Thoughts?”

Melody chimed in:

“You know I’ve said this before, but I like this stuff. I feel like you’re actually letting me into that part of your life you always keep separate.”

A pause.

“I’d do hero stuff… if I could.”

There was a note of melancholy in her voice.

I looked over at her and smiled warmly, and I meant it. She caught it and blushed a little.

Amy spoke next, her voice dry and analytical: “They’ve been around. Like you said, smash and grab, a little property damage, public nuisance. But this new girl, Skitter? She changes things.”

“How so?” I asked.

“She’s too calm, precise. The bug thing she pulled on Vicky wasn’t luck, it was planned and executed. Tattletale broke her shield, and Skitter had bugs waiting to attack. That’s not the usual Undersider stuff. It’s calculated.”

Amy puckered her lips in thought.

“The escalation worries me. If Grue and Tattletale are the brains, Skitter’s the scalpel.”

“Mmm. Yeah. Super interesting,” I murmured.

I wasn’t speaking for them. I was confirming for myself.

What they said tracked with what I’d seen.

Their perspectives, their biases, all bleeding through, but that’s what I wanted. That’s what made it valuable.

They were right. There was escalation. But more than that? There was strategy.

Victoria pressed her back into the sofa, straightening and sitting upright with her hands on her thighs.

She tapped one index finger as she added her piece: “Grue’s the core. He gives the orders, he runs interference. His smoke is very disruptive, nasty stuff. Blocks your vision, but also messes with your hearing, makes your balance fuzzy, like you’re underwater.”

I did a little cobra sway with my head, and Victoria continued: “Tattletale can read people like a book. She’s not a threat from a combatant perspective, but she gets in your head. Not literally, I don’t think she’s a master, but through words. Hellhound, she’s violent, her beasts are powerhouses, but she follows orders. Regent, he’s sort of a wildcard. I’m not sure he did much. Maybe he’s there for show, or he’s a Trump or something and was amping the others up.”

She took a breath, held it a moment. “But Skitter? Skitter’s the one who actually hurt me. And it’s not about being strong, but because she fights dirty. She fights smart. She’s dangerous all on her own, don’t underestimate her.”

Melody piped up:

“From a civilian perspective? Watching the footage?”

“The Wards got trounced.”

“And I want to say it’s because their best member wasn’t there…” she pointed at me, earning a groan, “...but honestly? They got beat. Bad.”

“The Undersiders took off, but my outside perspective is…”

She hesitated.

“Go on,” Amy said gently.

“I feel like… they weren’t even going all-out. Like they could’ve done worse. Hurt people. But they didn’t.”

“They don’t seem like… traditional villains? Different vibe. Property crimes, like you said. Maybe it’s a game. Or they’re pulling a cops-and-robbers or Robin Hood thing?”

She looked at the three of us, sheepish.

“Am I making any sense at all?”

“No,” said Amy.

“Yes,” I said at the same time.

Victoria smiled faintly, her voice dry: “You’re both right. And wrong.”

Her eyes flicked upwards as she ran through her memories.

“They didn’t want to hurt people. Not really. They scared people into compliance. Skitter terrorized every single person by telling them they had deadly black widows on them ready to bite if they tried anything. They were ready for violence. Hellhound’s beasts tore into Aegis like a chew toy.”

Her gaze dropped to me.

“You know brutes don’t get treated with kid gloves. That’s… expected.”

She looked around at all of us.

“The whole thing was a performance. Misdirection. Like a stage magician. You’re watching the rabbit come out of the hat, meanwhile, your wallet’s already gone.”

“They did hurt people,” Amy objected.

“They hurt Aegis. The other Wards got banged up. They hurt you, Vicky. That’s not entertainment.”

Victoria elbowed Amy gently and said: “Reminder of what I just said. The nature of being a brute means people hit you hard because you can be hit hard. The fear was a tool to smooth the robbery over so that force wouldn’t be needed.”

Amy once again argued with her sister. “They didn’t know I was there at first. They didn’t know I could heal people if things had gone badly. I had real black widows on me, that’s how I was able to give Skitter a feedback loop and mess her up.”

Victoria locked eyes with me, and explained, my confusion probably showing in my facial expression: “Amy used her power to hack a bug, and then hit Skitter in the head with a fire extinguisher while she was distracted.” Victoria’s vocal stressing of the physical attack combined with the actual substance of what she was saying made my eyes grow wide, and my jaw drop.

“Amy!” I blurted out, “You used your power in combat, and then smacked a villain in the head with a fire extinguisher!?”

Holy shit! Amy hates fighting! Not to mention she could have just straight-up caved in someone’s head doing that!

The outspoken, argumentative Amy that had been with us the past few minutes ducked, and it was like Amy shrank in her seat, and it was lunchroom Amy in her place. She looked down at her lap and nodded.

I hopped up from my sprawled position, knelt in front of the sofa in front of her, and took her hands in my own. They were clammy. I looked up at her.

“Hey,” I said to get her attention and draw her gaze. Her eyes were glistening.

“That’s huge. I know it was probably super scary for you. I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself in a live combat situation like that. I know Vicky is too without having to ask her.” Victoria nodded a bit.

“But can I be firm with you?” I asked her, and I squeezed her hands. She didn’t squeeze back or tense them, but she did nod.

“Amy, that was super brave, but you could have accidentally killed Skitter, or anyone, for that matter, hitting them in the head with a big, hard object like that.” I squeezed her hand again, trying to show her I was there to support her if she needed it.

Her jaw flexed, and she said a touch defensively: “I could have healed her,” she mumbled, her voice small. “I just… couldn’t let her get away with it.”

I didn’t let up, though. “I know. But that’s beside the point. It’s the what-if scenarios at play here. What if one of her teammates saw and knocked you out? What if they grabbed her, and you couldn’t get to her? She could have died, things would have spiraled out of your control beyond that moment.”

I paused a moment, then asked her: “Are you with me?”

I could see in her face my words had penetrated through to her, and she replied quietly: “She’s a horrible person. A villain.”

I was boring holes into her eyes with my gaze. Blue on brown. Empathetic and firm on doubting and uncertain. “I know, Amy. But you aren’t.”

She closed her eyes and gave the slightest fraction of a nod. And she squeezed my hands for the first time.

She didn’t have to say thank you. I felt it in the squeeze.

I wanted to end this moment on a positive note. “Any time at all, you want to learn how to put that fear and anxiety aside, learn ways to keep your cool and stay level in the middle of crazy stuff, you call me or stop over to see me. Or Vicky, for that matter. I know she supports you unconditionally.”

“We can get you whipped into a stone-cold trained fighting machine capable of folding Skitter into a pretzel while yawning.” I was grinning like an idiot saying it, and I let her hands go.

She laughed at the mental image and wiped at her eyes.

Vicky made eye contact with me as stood up, and she mouthed a silent: Thank you to me. I winked at her, she blushed and rolled her eyes.

I got you, Vicky. Amy’s a bit of a mess at times, and hearing this from someone who isn’t her sister is what she needs.

Victoria patted her thighs and picked up where she’d left off.

“Anyway—yeah. Fear tactics. Kind of terrorism-adjacent. Melody’s right in her analysis, I think, looking back at it. They could have gone harder. But they didn’t.

Nobody actually got bitten by those black widows.”

She tilted her head, humming under her breath.

“That tells me she’s got fine control. Maybe by species. Maybe by group. Maybe…”

A pause.

“Individually. But that’d be completely insane.”

She made air quotes.

“Point being—she’s a Master. And a hell of a powerful one, even if it’s ‘only bugs.’”

“Smart, like we discussed. Precise. Tactical.” I mused out loud, plopping back into my beanbag with a whump. “Dangerous because of it.”

Something was nibbling at me, a slippery, half-formed thought, and I didn’t want to chase it. To dedicate the energy to track it and pin it down under my claws.

Nods all around. Amy’s posture indicated she was peeking back out of her shell once more. Victoria less withdrawn, more of Glory Girl shining through. Melody looked tickled pink that she was here and participating.

I took stock of myself.

Nonchalant. Confident. Comfortable.

I think I looked good, too.

I felt good.

More like myself than I had in weeks. Maybe months.

As much as I’d changed into Apex… I think Apex was starting to change me.

I didn’t usually have this kind of casual command over a space. Not unless I was fighting.

A playful dominance.

Almost without realizing it, I felt… amorous.

The realization probably would have brought a flush to my cheeks at other times, but right now? I was in my place, we were collectively sharing a moment of connection, something that felt right. And I was in the middle of my stride.

“Anyone hungry? We could order some pizzas if deliveries are running. I got drinks and snacks, too. Lots of iced tea.” That perked everyone up.

“Yeah,” Amy said, glancing at her sister, who nodded.

I clapped my hands together and pulled out my phone. One quick call later, and we had two big pies on the way, from the good place, no less.

“Hey Morg?” Melody asked me after grabbing a drink for herself. The Dallons were helping themselves in the kitchen.

“Yeah?” I asked her. I idly scratched at my lower belly, feeling the subtle curves of my abs as I lounged, limbs spread, core relaxed.

“Thanks. You know, for…” she gestured out towards the kitchen, then to me. I got her meaning right off, and I shot her a big smile. Tilting her head and looking down at me on my beanbag, she asked: “What’s with the beanbag?”

“So, don’t laugh, but. I’ve been shopping online and am thinking of totally replacing my couch with these giant beanbag couches they have that seat anywhere from like two to eight people. Huge slouchy bags, oversized duffels, even sectionals with beanbag stuffing.”

Almost entirely true. I had been, but I’d also been shopping for ones that had unusual fill materials, the kinds that wouldn’t get damaged by having a couple thousand pounds of stuff put on top of them. I’d found a place that made specialty ones, stuff that could be used for movie sets, acrobatics, stunts, but also just plain old furniture, too. They were expensive, I balked a little at the price, but I was pretty sure I was going to purchase them anyway.

“Okay, but why though?” She pressed.

God damn it, Melody. Always so perceptive.

I was feeling good, letting her in on the hero stuff had gone well, and hadn’t backfired. Still, I debated internally. I could be truthful with her, maybe a touch less vague, but still keep the giant blue elephant in the room secret.

I tongued my cheek, then told her: “I’ve been using my power more, experimenting. You know, the uh, bed on the kitchen floor and alarm clock thing?”

I had her full and undivided attention, and she nodded slowly.

“Well. I’ve been having little incidents. Like the time or two you’ve seen. Long story short? I’ve been sleeping on the floor because I don’t want to trash my bed, and my blankets, sheets, pillows... they’ve been taking a beating."

She had a look of recognition and understanding on her face, and she said: “You don’t have to say anymore, I totally understand now.”

“No, but I will,” I told her, and her eyes opened just a touch wider. “I found a store that does specialty stuff like that, but they have shell materials that are really durable, stuff that’s rip, tear, and puncture resistant, spill proof, you name it. It’s expensive, but, not as expensive as replacing furniture, carpeting, or getting evicted.”

She beamed a smile at me, her tone warm: “That’s smart, that’s my sister using her head and not letting any issues drag her down.”

“Don’t go getting all sappy on us now…” Victoria said as she and Amy came back in and sat back down.

Melody groaned, and I said: “Pizza’ll be here soon. We ready to dive into the heavy stuff?”

Amy took a sip of her tea and commented: “Depends on the stuff, and how heavy.”

I put on my ‘let's do work face’ and cracked my knuckles for effect. “The ABB, Lung’s escape, the Bakuda bombings, and all the responses so far. What we can do to help.”

Determination filled the air between the four of us. It was time for game plans, war gaming, and soon: delicious carbohydrates. Later? Relaxation.

Chapter Text

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♦ Topic: Consolidation Thread: Big, Blue & Burgers
In: Boards ► Places ► USA ► Brockton Bay
TurtleMuffin (Original Poster) (Moderator)
Posted On Apr 3rd 2011:
Alright, folks: we're locking all related threads to this topic and asking everyone to consolidate their comments, questions, and speculation here so we don't explode the forum with a thousand new threads.

Try to keep in mind the guidelines we have stickied for threads like this. Everyone's excited about a big new unknown in the city, but please try to keep wild speculation and bad information to a minimum. Thank you all!
(Showing page 1 of 41)

►KrillBlitz
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
So was anyone actually there when it happened?? My friend's cousin works at Fugly's and swears that thing ROARED and broke the sound barrier or something. It was also apparently sort of polite and tipped well?!?! Actually losing my mind here.

►PHOaddict
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Did you see the video where it landed with GG? It's a little dark and blurry from someone's shitty cheapass phone but Big Blue dropped down *without a sound* behind her. And the way it walked?? You CANNOT tell me that's natural. I tiger, centipede and squid had baby and it prowled around like a greasy burger predator. Freaky.

►Vista (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Please don't panic. I trust Glory Girl, she's smart and wouldn't be running around in public with a villain. That said, I get she's intense-looking. Give her some space and patience as if you were in her shoes. Claws. Feet. Paws?

►RUSHPANDA
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Yeah, don't panic, no big deal, not like there's some baby E.B. chilling and mowing down pounds of food. What happens when that thing gets hungry and there isn't a hero there to feed it, huh? What is it, some wet tinker's pet that got loose?

@vista She? No chance.

►TrashLord
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Calling it, Crawler went for a swim and knocked up a giant squid. S9 lovechild.

►local_mayor
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
I'm just saying, it kind of nice that he sat on the patio, didn't trash the place, and paid in cash. You know how many actual humans don't tip? Its gross.

►Clockblocker (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
So you're telling me a blue monster cape dropped in to a burger joint, crushed two Challengers, and a kid pet it?

I've never related to anymore more.

►cheezbytes
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Saw it three days ago. Crouched on a roof by the boardwalk. Thought it was some kind of macabre gargoyle art project. Then it twitched.

Looked right at me.
Didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
I BOOKED it. NEVER AGAIN.

►Anglehair2011
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Me and my roomie were walking past railyard Friday night. Saw something blue crouched on all fours in an alley. It was whispering in tongues over a pile of dead mutts. Then it turned and whispered at us.

kulush'aka v'thor gib'tiktik kaaa

I don't care what anyone says, capes don't do that. We took off.
[EDIT: roommate says some substances might have been involved, but she screamed way louder than I did.]
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(Showing page 2 of 41)

►RUSHPANDA
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Do less drugs, idiot.

►BURNINGBEARD
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
It has six wings. Six.
You know what else has six wings? Seraphim.
Straight from the bible, even the eyes.
The rapture is coming, and this is an angel sent from God to punish the unbelievers.

►P_eye_girl
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
[Image attached: Daytime, a palm spread in the middle of a clawed pawprint, barely filling one of the pad imprints. The bottom of the photo is partially blocked by the back of a woman's head.]

Saw this in the parking lot when I went to go check it out this morning. Hand for scale, I'm 5-3.

►TrashLord
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Hand? Next time use a banana.

►DeepScan42
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
HOLY FUCKIGN SHIT

LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THAT PRINT!!! How fucking big is this thing!? ITS LEAVING FOOTPRINTS IN PAVEMENT??? THE FUCK!!

►CNC4Life
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
I've been trying to figure that out too. I'm thinking like, maybe fifteen feet for the body? Then the tail is more than double that. Tip of the beak to end of the tail, we might be talking fifty feet, man. Also, as an engineer, I'm going to spitball five, maybe six thousand pounds? Hard to say with certainty, there's a lot of variability with asphalt, the blend, temperature, etc. can make a huge impact. Couple tons though, for sure.

►TrashLord
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Fugly has a mascot, and it's perfect. Fucking lardass breaking shit just moving around from eating those nasty-ass burgers.

►Vult_Ure9-0
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
[Image attachment: A full-color drawn image of a busty, scantily-clad Glory Girl in cowgirl getup riding on the back of the creature like it's a pony, Fugly Bob's Burgers in the background.]

►TurtleMuffin (Original Poster) (Moderator)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
@Vult_Ure9-0

Nice picture, but a reminder that we don't allow any adult content, *especially* in the case of minors or Wards.

This is approaching a gray area, so please just be careful. And don't link to any material that might violate our policy on an external site here. First and only warning for that.

►4WheelMuddinG1rl
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Someone I know said this thing showed up and ripped the door off her car after she got t-boned in an intersection northside. Helped her out, made sure she was okay, then left. No video or proof.
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►Vista (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Haven't heard anything about that, but it would be cool if true.

►Gone_Home
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
[Image attached: A lanky teen boy with an anime girl graphic teeshirt on, taking a selfie with Glory Girl at Fugly Bob's. His hand is hovering over her shoulder awkwardly and the creature is visible just behind them, many eyes gleaming in the lighting, its tongue blurred darting out of its beak.]

I was there, this is me. Not sure if it speaks or just like, growls or something, people were saying it seemed to be communicating with Glory Girl while they were eating at one point. Seems to be intelligent and have a personality at least, it was sticking its tongue out and photobombing in the background. I'm not good with stuff like this, so I basically took straight off after getting the pic for proof.

►Housemom88
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
I have arachnophobia. That thing is disgusting and makes me want to puke looking at it. Looking cute, Glory Girl! Huuuuuge fan!!

►Glory Girl (Verified Cape) (New Wave)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Hey all, just confirming this is me, no imposters or anything. Don't have a ton of time to chat at the moment, so I'll be quick and maybe pop a response or two in.

This is Apex.
They're new.
They're cool, independent, and team good guys.
They got into a little tussle with me and the Merchants northside last night, we hung out after, got food, as you all know.

►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Apex? Fucking COOL name, dude.

GG: You two fought against the merchants, was it a three-way split? Sorta lacking detail and a bit confused, can you clear that up RQ?

►Glory Girl (Verified Cape) (New Wave)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Oh, good catch, thanks cowboy.

Apex and I had a friendly spar, I was helping them get a feel for their powers, typical cape stuff, really. Merchants crashed in on us where we were and demanded tolls. Apex jumped out and scared them so bad they literally ran away. Mush screams like a schoolgirl and Skidmark has a new reason to rock that name, haha.

►RUSHPANDA
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
hahahahahaha OMFG

Skidmark shitted his pants, perfect for that fucking diaper he wears on his head. Gonna edit his wiki and add Shitmark as one of his aliases now.

►GstringGirl
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Super funny, and gross, I love it.

Can't wait to see what's going on with Apex moving forward. They're way cool looking, I don't care what anyone says about them.

►banjoweb
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Do NOT believe the hype. Apex is probably a monster cape trying to play nice and pose for photos. We've seen this before. S9 did it. Teeth did it. It never lasts. If he's so nice, where's their PRT connection? Independent? Red flag, telling you all.

►In_A_High_Tower
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Yep, +1. You think a monster like that has good intentions, I've got a tinktertech bridge to sell you. This is B.Bay, shit -sucks- here. Probably secretly a nazi, asian supremacist, closeted serial killer or some other fucked up shit. We should put Apex down BEFORE she decides she's hungry again. Glory Girl is being a dope. This won't end well.
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►AlephandChill
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
So it just sat there and let people film and photograph it at FB's? It knows it's being recorded, looks like some freak nightmare shit, somehow doesn't care? Either it's laying a big honey pot out or it's a complete sociopath or something.

►TurtleMuffin (Original Poster) (Moderator)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
@RUSHPANDA

The Wiki isn't a toy for shitposting. Known aliases are fine, don't just make crap up and stick in there for the memes. Speaking of which:

[Image attached: The photo of the teen and Glory Girl with Apex in the background. Bold white text superimposed over the image in a typical meme format. It reads: "Double Challenger Challenge" across the top of the image, and "Status: Crushed" across the bottom.]

►TrashLord
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Your memes suck turtlesoup.

►init4thememez
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
[Image attached: A fake wanted poster with Apex's face blown up front and center. "Have you seen this tentacled critter?" Up top, and below: "Last seen murking burgers and a pickup truck. Approach with snacks."]

►Glass_House (Rumor Engine) (Verified Reporter)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Backchannel from my contacts in PRT ENE: Planning to approach Apex, trying to work through the degrees of separation between PRT and Apex. Supposedly getting stonewalled by New Wave leadership who has a direct connect. My assumption here is there is political friction and maybe some egos butting heads between the groups.

Personal note here: I'd love to talk to New Wave leadership and/or Apex directly. Get in my DM's and we can maybe work something out.

►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Huh. Interesting. House usually has pretty good insight into things locally. Getting a scoop on this would be pretty huge, I follow his blog feed.

►Glory Girl (Verified Cape) (New Wave)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
@Glass_House

DM sent. No promises on Apex, I don't speak for them at all, but I can put you in contact with Brandish, for sure.

►ALogistDarkly
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Biology PhD candidate here, BBU.

I’m a Biology PhD candidate at BBU. Every time I see Apex, my brain short-circuits a little—but I can’t look away. She’s fascinating. Nothing about her form should be evolutionarily viable, and yet she moves like it was made to work. She shouldn’t exist, and I can’t stop thinking about how she does.

Looking through the videos and photos that have been posted here and in the other threads, she's got:
-Distinct aquatic coloration and camouflage patterning
-Endo- *and* exoskeletal traits
-Numerous visible sensory organs, some possibly redundant
-Predator morphology across multiple clades
-Insectile wings that scream Odonata
-Color-matched carapace armor and plating, some seamless with her hide
-Humanoid elements, especially in the lower arms and hands

I could go on. My head is flooded with theories. Apex, if you're reading this, I would give *anything* to meet you. You're a walking dissertation or five, easily.

►Housemom88
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
So it is a predador? I'm keeping my kids inside of that THING comes around my neighborhood. Eating dogs, eating hamburgers, we know it eats meat, I bet they're gonna find bodies in the bay.

►Apex (Verified Cape)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
@Housemom88

Chubby little kids? Tender as wagyu. Where'd you say you lived again?
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(Showing page 5 of 41)

►TrashLord
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
HOLY FUCKIN SHIT

►Vista (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Uhhh... Pretty sure she's joking.

►Housemom88
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
I'm calling the cops right now, the cops and the PRT!!

►RUSHPANDA
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Wait, you feed her more piggy?

►init4thememez
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
spit my fucking drink out, this is peak AF

►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Apex please don't eat me.

How in the heckinheck are you posting on PHO? Do you have a keyboard for giants?

►BURNINGBEARD
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
REPENT! THE SERAPHIM HAVE ARRIVED!

►TurtleMuffin (Original Poster) (Moderator)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
@Apex

No incitement, personal attacks, or threats of violence. Normally I'd be issuing a strike, sent you a DM instead.

►Apex (Verified Cape)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
@turtlemuffin

Sorry, thought that was clearly a joke. I don't eat people. I'd take a sponsorship for F.B.'s though, HMU. Maybe I can get one styled after me.

Also, a lot, maybe even most of the posts on here are wildly wrong. I've been out and about Brockton Bay two days now, and in public once. I'll be staying, though.

►Glass_House (Rumor Engine) (Verified Reporter)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
@Apex, check your DM's, please.
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(Showing page 6 of 41)

►ALogistDarkly
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
+1 ^^

►TrashLord
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
The more you talk, the less interesting you are. Go back to not posting and then scaring housewives randomly.

►o0SILO0o
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
A/S/L?

►Apex (Verified Cape)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Adult, N/A, Brockton Bay.

►Alathea (Moderator) (Wiki Warrior)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Mod team is getting pings about Apex, and their Verified Cape flag. Posting here for clarity and pinning it.

Apex is confirmed to be who they say they are. It was one of the easiest confirmation DM interactions I've ever had to do, there is no faking or mistaking them.

►Miss Militia (Verified Cape) (Protectorate ENE)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
We don't typically comment on unaffiliated capes unless there's an ongoing incident. Apex isn't under investigation and there's been no criminal activity reported.

►Newter (Verified Cape) (Case 53)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Not here often, saw this, just chiming in. Don't assume stuff about us based on the way we look. Trust me on that. Apex, check your DMs. Peace.

►In_A_High_Tower
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Called it. Called it!

There's Faultline's Crew reaching out. Villain mercs, scum of the earth violence for hire sorts. Just you wait and see. Apex will be all up in the villain business in no time at all. It's a numbers game, people. Wake up! More V's than H's!

►SkidDaddy94 (Banned)
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Why wait for a body count? Stick a bomb in a fat steak and drop it off for it. Problem solved.

[Moderator Note: User Banned. *Just* said no calls for violence.]

►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
Bruh. No.
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►cheezbytes
Replied On Apr 3rd 2011:
[Image attached: A fast food flyer mockup. "The Apex Meal: 2 Challengers, Cajun fries, 1 gallon Iced Tea. Terror not included."
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■

Chapter Text

I followed Brian from the gym, out of the Boardwalk, heading North. We stopped and got coffee and pastries at this place he had been trying to get me to try, and I had to admit, it was good. We chatted about a group of friends he had who he wanted to introduce me to at a place they shared. I couldn’t help but start feeling a touch apprehensive about the neighborhoods we were getting into. We were headed to the pretty bad parts of town fast. 

Seemingly picking up on my wandering gaze and heightened alertness, Brian told me, “Yeah, I know it’s a bit rough, but the place is dirt cheap. It’s early, I’m a big guy, and you more than know how to handle yourself even if something did happen, but I’m confident that won’t be an issue in the first place.”

I took a pull of my coffee and stuffed one hand into the pocket of my hoodie. “Yeah, fair. I got my own place that is in a part of town in the area here that is bordering on the rougher parts, but it’s not quite to this level.” I looked around at the state of disrepair of the city's infrastructure. The sidewalks were cracked, overgrown, and littered with broken glass.

We stopped in front of a really quite large old factory building, back from a time when the city was still using a lot of red brick. A huge sliding bay door was chained shut, no doubt some kind of front access to a loading dock. The place was three stories, and as I looked back and forth and took in the full scale of the place, I was a bit flabbergasted. 

Redmond Welding, huh? I vaguely recognized it: from the air. It looked a lot bigger from the ground.

“Don’t use this door; we haven’t bothered trying to get it back in service. Come around to the side.”

My fingers drifted over my phone in the pocket of my hoodie. Brian had been solid since I met him a few weeks ago, but this place gave me the heebie-jeebies. I took another sip of my coffee.

He doesn’t really have serial killer energy, but they say that the real ones never do, either.

I sort of wanted to get a feeler before entering, and I looked up, over, and around the face of the building. “You’re living in this entire place? You could fit an entire like homeless tent city inside this place. And it doesn’t really look like it’s heavily trafficked or lived in.”

Brian chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, hell no. Like, ninety percent of the building is empty, and we don’t do anything with it. It’s dirty as heck, and with the old machines left inside, it’s like tetanus waiting to happen. No, there’s old office space upstairs, over the factory that we’ve converted into a loft. That’s where we’re hanging out. I don’t want to brag or anything, but we have a pretty sweet setup.” 

Makes sense. 

I nodded my head and moved to follow him to the side entrance. This did look like it saw frequent use. “Sorry. I guess I can’t talk much, my place was converted over from an older place like this, but before I ever moved in there. Privately owned, the owners were saying they were trying to reclaim parts of the city that weren’t in too bad of shape and get people moving into them.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you beforehand, the first floor is rough,” Brian told me as he swung the door open.

“Good on you for making something of this place, though. Honestly. Knowing it’s a work-in-progress, I won’t judge too harshly,” I said with a snicker. 

He wasn’t kidding. The first floor was rough: open, dusty, and full of mothballed machinery. Sheets draped in grime, cobwebs hanging thick. Dirty, dingy, and poorly lit by windows ringed around the ceiling. There was a footpath I could make out on a cleaned-through-traffic concrete floor leading to a spiral staircase in the corner. I-beams layered in thick old paint supported what I supposed were the living quarters above storage racks and shelving units.

I let him lead, and we took the staircase up. “It’s a little messy inside. We’ve been working to try and keep it cleaner, but…” He dropped his voice some before continuing: “...some of my friends are giant slobs.” The loft was a whole different story. Way nicer, and I finally got a chance to take it all in. It was an open space for the most part, with some interior walls separating different areas, and there wasn’t a drop ceiling or anything; you could see clear up to the steel beams an entire story above.

As he’d said, it was pretty clean overall; there wasn’t dirt, grime, cobwebs, or anything of the sort, but it was messy. A few trash bags waiting to be taken out, stacks of pizza boxes, clutter strewn about, and things like DVD cases and video games left scattered around. Some dirty laundry. A pair of well-worn and quite comfortable-looking big couches surrounded a coffee table on two sides, the larger of the two couches facing a very decked-out entertainment center.

There seemed to be some bedrooms for half a dozen or so people, marked out by graffiti on the doors, bathrooms, and a kitchenette as well. It was quiet, the TV was on a local news station but muted with captions turned on. I didn’t get the impression that most of Brian’s friends were the early morning sorts like we were. There were water running sounds coming from one of the bathrooms down the corridor where the rooms were located. Each bedroom had tall walls but no ceiling, just open to the rafters above. Industrial loft chic, I guess.

Besides Brian and me, and the person in the restroom, there was one other occupant present.

“Introductions are in order,” Brian said.

At the same time, I was blinking rapidly. I knew the girl on the smaller sofa, watching the news. I really hadn’t expected to see her of all people here, but as shocked by it as I was, I was also relieved.

“...is Taylor,” Brian and I spoke at the same time, and this time around, it was his turn to be confused.

Taylor, for her part, seemed a touch surprised but was giving me a look that I read as intense. I was starting to think that was just sort of how she was in general.

“You know each other?” Brian asked, incredulous.

Well, I’m glad to know that this isn’t an elaborate trick to get me into a serial killer dungeon in a questionable part of town. And that Taylor actually has friends.

I rested one hand on my hip, the other holding my coffee at chest height, in a sort of sassy but playful pose, and gave Taylor a look of my own: just a touch of disdain.

“I can’t believe I tried to get you into the gym, and now here’s my new sparring partner, introducing me to the friends he wants me to train, and you’re one of them.” 

I moved my hand from my hip to my chest for dramatic effect: “You wound me, Taylor.”

“I mean…” she started, her brow wrinkling slightly, “I have been thinking about it, just been busy.”

I hid a grin with my coffee.

“Please, have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Just going to be the four of us, as far as I know.” Brian said, gesturing at the large sofa. I made my way over to the smaller one and took a seat next to Taylor. I threw an arm over her shoulder, and she stiffened up on me. This girl was wound up tighter than an old-time alarm clock, I swear.

Brian dropped onto the big couch with a shrug and shot us a look. I mimed socking Taylor in the gut four or five times, tapping her with the backs of my knuckles, my hand wrapped around the paper coffee cup.

“I see you, Brian,” he was grinning at the two of us and the bit. “I hear you. We need to tag-team the peer-pressure approach on this one. We’ll have Stoneface McGee here begging for mercy while doing reps in no time at all.”

I glanced over at Taylor, still pretty stiff, but marginally less so. “And if she doesn’t, I’ll bust out the Kung Fu on her.”

That, of all things, got her attention. Taylor’s expression shifted into something skeptical but genuinely curious. “Do you really know Kung Fu?” I gave her the tiniest of shakes through her shoulder, then let up on harassing her.

I sighed. “No, I wish. And I doubt I have the time to learn, now. Not that I’d trust anyone to actually teach anything approaching the real stuff in Brockton Bay of all places. But I’ve got about a half dozen others under my belt that I put to good use, especially in the gym.”

The water cut off and, a door opened, and a fairly attractive-looking blonde came out and took a seat next to Brian. She waggled her fingertips in my direction and grinned in a decidedly mischievous manner. The smile complemented the freckles on her face quite well. I gauged her age to be about my own, or close. 

“Hi, I’m Lisa! And you are…”

Brian held out an open hand and said, “This is Morgan, she’s the one I’ve been telling you all about at the gym. I finally convinced her to pay us all a visit over here.”

“That’s me! Brian was telling me you all were taking an interest in some self-defense lessons with everything that’s been going on. Never a bad time to learn, but I will warn you, you really shouldn’t try to get involved or dragged into any fights with those ABB scumbags. A lot of them carry weapons, and I’m not even talking about the bombing shit.”

Lisa’s eyes widened marginally, and she nodded slowly. “So you have encountered them before, then?”

Huh. That was a pointed question. Curious.

I tapped my finger on my coffee cup and bobbed my head. “Yeah. More than a few times, a bit of history there.” 

“You must be either very good or very lucky. You don’t look horribly maimed.” She replied.

I tilted my head a little and thought about the question and how to frame a response. “Bit of both, probably. I’ve been shot before, by one of them, actually. Not too bad, thankfully. Got treated right away.” 

Lisa gasped, and Brian said, “Really?”

I looked down at my coffee cup and tried not to frown at the memory. “Yeah, unfortunately.”

“Did you get a cool scar out of it, at least? Can I see?” Lisa asked.

Oh, shit. Is she flirting?

“It’s in an awkward place; I wouldn’t feel comfortable showing it. Sorry.”

She waved a hand and shook her head. “No, don’t sweat it at all! I should have thought before asking. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.” 

“Not a fan of the ABB myself,” Taylor murmured next to me. 

I turned to face her a bit more directly. “History with them yourself? I heard they’ve got a pretty decent presence over in Winslow.” 

“Yeah.” She said, with nothing further added.

“Hey, can you take this off mute, low volume? I want to see this.” Brian asked, gesturing at some news coverage of the latest bombings. The news covered the latest in this string of bombings, and some of the images were terrible. Anomalous physical effects occurred with a number of bombings, things like flash freezing, huge temperature spikes, electrical discharges, and more. Tinkertech perverted specifically to make explosives and terror devices.

We all watched, but some of it got to me. I tapped out after a few minutes, asking: “You mind if we change the channel or something? I hate seeing some of that.”

“Yeah, of course,” Brian replied easily.

We got into some speculative discussions about how things were going to wind up going down with the military moving in, and the steps the Wards and the Protectorate were taking to try and maintain the peace. That spiraled out into a bigger discussion of cape presence in the city generally. PRT, Protectorate, and Wards were talked about quite a bit. I tried to weigh in my opinions in a number of places without revealing anything too detailed.

Taylor mentioned my PRT background, and suddenly Lisa and Brian were firing off questions about the capes I’d met. I took them to be fans with their energy and interest. I came up at one point, or rather, I should say former me, in the form of Phoenix Strike. I did my usual bit of lightly trash-talking her, and Lisa and I got into a bit of a debate about the who’s who of the Wards, and my graduation being unfortunate timing. 

I really couldn’t help but agree. I felt, not just because I knew her inside and out, but also from an outside perspective, that any extra hands would have been priceless at PRT HQ right about now. 

Between questions and chatter, the three of them kept checking their phones, me too, if I’m being honest. It felt like everyone in the city was running a rolling group chat right now. We were all trying to stay one step ahead of the next bomb going off. 

Brian glanced at his phone and nodded at something, then sent a reply. 

Lisa and Taylor were glancing at each other intermittently. I figured it was a friends thing. Banter. Maybe they were gossiping about me. Something I’d said, probably.

Taylor asked me if I wanted anything to eat or drink, and I shook my head. I had just drained the last dregs of my coffee when she got up and headed over to the restrooms. 

“How have your families been holding up so far? No close encounters, I hope?” I asked Lisa and Brian. 

Lisa waved a hand, saying, “My family doesn’t live in the area, no worries there.” 

Brian sighed and admitted, “No, no close encounters, and I hope it stays that way. People in some of my extended friend circle have been impacted by the terrorism.” Taylor came back into the room, and she was holding a big chunk of plastic or something. When I looked up, her lips turned up just slightly, and she brought it over and handed it to me. 

It was solid, heavy, and cool to the touch. Amber. Looking inside, there was a dragonfly, and its wings reminded me of my own. I couldn’t help but smile.

“This is awesome,” I told her, then asked: “Where did you get it? Aren’t these sort of expensive?”

She looked over at Brian, who rubbed the back of his head. 

I know he dresses nicely sometimes, and he’s leasing this place. I didn’t realize that he was that well off, damn.

I handed it back to her, carefully, and she took it back. “Damn, forgot my drink.” “Be right back.” She disappeared behind the couch, and I turned my attention back to Brian, who started to explain the story behind the gift. She clicked her tongue and said quietly, “Alec, always leaving his clothing lying around.”I looked back over at Brian when he started talking: “It was a sort of spur-of-the-moment purchase, and we were all in a celebratory mood, so I figured why not, you know?”

I opened my mouth to tell him he really knew how to give killer gifts, then something heavy slammed into the back of my head. I barely registered, slumping forward and face-planting on the floor. 

Everything was spinning, and I was trying to get my hands under me while blinking away the stars in my vision. 

Taylor? Wh–

I didn’t get a chance to finish the thought. A second blow landed, and I went limp. 

My eyes were open, but I couldn’t focus them; everything was blurry. I tasted blood. Thinking was unbelievably difficult, and I was suddenly extremely sleepy. A thought popped into my head that no matter what, I couldn’t go to sleep. It seemed like a good thought, and I fought to keep awake.

“Take her downstairs, get something to tie her up with. No, not rope, use a chain. Brute rating.”

I was picked up and tossed over Brian’s shoulder. That sent my entire perception of the world spinning, and it wasn’t stopping. I thought I was going to throw up. I didn’t, but I think I was drooling. Maybe it was blood.

He set me down, gently, propped me up against something cold and hard. Probably one of the I-beams. Someone else approached, chains rattling. My hands were bound behind my back in a chain, and another wrapped around my chest in an X pattern, over the shoulders, crossing over, and under my armpit. I heard locks snapping shut.

My chin was resting against my chest. I tried to pick my head up, it rolled around, and I banged it against the beam. Agony. I let my head fall forward again. I wasn’t going to repeat that.

I tried to speak. It was unintelligible. My ears were ringing, and I couldn’t really tell the voices apart well in my head.

“Shit. She’s not going to die, is she?”

“Probably not. She’s a Brute, has regeneration. She’ll bounce back.”

“I panicked. She started to get up I didn’t know what else to do.”

“That second hit? Not great.”

“You’re sure-sure? Not maybe sure?”

“One thousand percent that’s Phoenix Strike. Congrats, Brian. She knows everything now. Names. Faces. Where we operate out of.”

“We talked about this! How was I supposed to know? I don’t read minds!”

“I’m going to check her.”

“Finally, someone’s thinking.”

I was frisked down, my pockets rummaged around and dug through, it felt like everything was taken. Footsteps leaving, then coming back.

“Let me see that?”

Rapid tapping of buttons, then my phone unlocking. Menu scrolling and navigating like crazy. Someone put a dark cloth over my head. As much as I didn’t want to get blackbagged right now, the darkness really helped with my head.

“It’s not a sting. And… damn. Phoenix Dyke got canned hard. Gotta give it to her, she’s smart. Contacts are all coded. A lot of juicy stuff, but harder to decipher.”

I tried to talk again. “Buh. Bluh. Hehh hurr.” Something was wrong; my jaw and tongue weren’t cooperating. My head felt like it was splitting open.

“I brought tin foil if you want to wrap it up.” 

“Good idea.”

“Even if she’s not PRT, she knows every Ward in the city. That’s an issue.”

Humming for a moment, then: “We’ve got a problem: leverage. She flips this on us; she’s back in the PRT. Especially after the bank.” 

I didn’t care about any of that. My thoughts were muddy, tangled. I couldn’t even tell who was talking. My limbs twitched, unresponsive, and just staying awake felt like a herculean effort.

I needed help. “Hehh. Hehh Muhh.”

My nose was running. It was irrational how much that bothered me.

“Check on her.”

“Take that shirt off her head and I’ll take a look.” 

Brightness assaulted my senses. There was a figure squatting in front of me, but I couldn’t make them out. A hand lifted my head by my chin.

“She’s not healing. That’s… she’s not okay.”

“Yeah…”

“Hey!” The raised voice rang in my head. “Hey! Morgan! Use your power to heal yourself! Come on!”

My power…? Oh right. But I’m me, will me being me be… bad for me…?

“Go on, do it! I know you can fix yourself!”

Okay…

I tried to focus. Waves rose: towering whitecaps. My power surged like crazy. Somewhere deep down, I was still holding on to me.

I let go.

Warmth bloomed in my chest, traveled up my spine and into my head. With it came an almost immediate relief of some of my worst symptoms. I started to change, I could feel pushing, tugging, shifting. My head was clearing, my thoughts starting to catch up as my head became progressively less befuddled and buried in mud.

I didn’t feel safe right now, and I wanted to feel safe. My vision was obstructed as my hair started to wrap around my face. The darkness brought solace, and I let out a low groan of relief. I was feeling better. Way better. Constricting tension and pressure was gripping my chest and arms. I pushed my power harder to compensate. Things accelerated rapidly in response, and with that came some unpleasant sounds and some sensations ranging between uncomfortable to moderately painful.

I closed my eyes and did my best to relax and endure through it. The pressure went away, and I took a deep breath, let it out. I grew, and in more ways than one. My consciousness and awareness expanded, my head was well on the way to being clear and thinking normally.

Things had gone from zero to a hundred, fast. The situation was fucked, and with what was happening to me now? My transformation? Making me better, but throwing gasoline on what was already a dumpster fire.

I didn’t care.

My vision snapped back into existence, and I could see everything, hear everything. I was back. Apex was back. Brian–Grue was standing in a cloak of darkness. Tattletale had a handgun aimed directly at my face. Taylor… Skitter… Had a knife in her hands, and a small swarm of bugs swirling around her like a menacing halo. I felt and saw many were all over me as well.

Sitting upright, I rolled forward onto all fours, and I reached out with my tail and looped it around Taylor’s thin frame, hoisting her up before any of them had a chance to react. I was fast when I wanted to be, scarily so.

Brian took a step forward, a chunk of pipe in his hands. Lisa’s hands were trembling, the gun in her grip wavering. I felt sharp poking at my tail and brought Taylor in closer to my face. She was doing her damn best to stab or cut her way out of my grip. Her knife wasn’t doing shit. I reached out with one long lower arm, plucked it from her grip, and flicked it over by the shelves.

“Stop that,” I said, my deep voice rumbling in my chest.

Her bugs were swarming over my eyes, blocking out my vision, and trying to find ways into my mouth, which was more annoying than anything. I had her in a firm grip around her midsection.

I opened my mouth to speak, and bugs flew in. I spoke anyway. “Quit it with the bugs, or I’ll smack you.” I tightened my tail around her just a touch. I smashed up the bugs in my mouth with my tongue and swallowed them down. It was gross to think about, but the taste wasn’t actually terrible. I had other, more important things to focus on at the moment.

“Do it,” Grue said, raising his hands in a slow, placating gesture. A moment later, my vision cleared, though she left a number of bugs clinging to me. I wasn’t going to press the issue.

As a show of good faith, I squatted down and sat, but didn’t release my hold on Taylor. I wanted to, but the Undersiders had proven themselves both slippery and cunning. 

I opened up to you. Let my guard down. And just like with Armsmaster, I get smacked down for it.

I was mad. I’d let myself reach out and connect with them, and they’d betrayed that trust by smashing me in the head with tasteful decor. The physical pain was a memory, but the betrayal stung.

Literally, what the hell was that all about, anyway?

“Why?” I asked. I focused my vision on Taylor’s face without moving my head a millimeter. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Her face was stormy, tense, but not panicked. Not like she should have been. Not like I had been just minutes before. 

“I came over here, I trusted you, Brian,” my voice oozed malice. “We were chatting and having a good time, and then you just cheapshot me out of the blue.” I punctuated you with a shake of the girl in question.

“We can talk this out,” Brian started to say.

“WE ARE TALKING!” My voice tore free in a barely restrained roar–guttural, raw, and far too loud for the space. My jaw snapped shut with the wet, bone-deep clack of many teeth. Two sharp breaths followed, back-to-back jets of hot air escaping under the beak of my helmet.

I did another take, my voice less feral than a moment before: “We are talking. I’m pissed, but I’m still talking. I could level this building in seconds if I wanted to.” There was no edge in my voice, just cold, hard truth. Let them stew on that for a moment.

Tattletale didn’t answer right away. I watched the gears turning behind her eyes, the rapid-fire calculations running into brick walls and dead ends. Her hands were still trembling. She finally spoke, words tumbling out in a half-breath:

“Look, braining you with a paperweight wasn’t Plan A. Wasn’t Plan Z, either.”

She wet her lips: “You walked in as Brian’s gym buddy, and halfway through, I realized you were Phoenix Strike. That changed the math. You were a Ward, in our base, knew our faces, names.” 

She slowly lowered the gun, slipping it into the waistband of her jeans with careful deliberation. “So yeah, maybe we panicked.” Her voice cracked. “It’s been a week.”

Taylor’s voice cut in, quieter and sharper than I expected: “How are you… How are you both? Phoenix strike, and this?” She waved a hand vaguely at my body. “They’re not even remotely…”

I raised one of my upper arms, black claws gleaming in the warehouse light, and pointed the curved, machete-sized tip inches from her face.

“I’m going to be nice.” My voice was low, dangerous. “Do not make me regret it. ” 

She froze, her eyes locked on the claw. Her jaw clenched.

I held the pose a heartbeat longer... then set her down and uncoiled my tail. She staggered slightly as my slick skin slid off her shirt.

“It’s complicated,” I said to her directly, my voice still rough. “And I’d be more willing to talk about it if you hadn’t just nearly killed me.”

Guilt carved through her expression like a blade. That had landed, and hard.

I didn’t think it had been intentional. Any of it. I didn’t get that sense from them. As far as I knew, the discussions we’d had in my apartment, the only person the Undersiders had done any real damage to was Lung, and he’d earned it.

The move worked; some tension bled out of the room like air hissing from a slashed tire. Grue let his darkness dissipate and tossed his pipe onto a sheet with a muted clang. Taylor’s bugs retreated, although they weren’t entirely gone. They lingered in rafters, behind shelves. Watching. Available.

Smart.

“Well, we’re in a bit of a pickle here, aren’t we?” Lisa said lightly. Before anyone could respond, she plowed ahead: “You know our identities and the location of our lair. You’ve got a very good reason to try crawling back into the PRT’s good graces. And you’re a good guy.” She laced that last part with theatrical disdain, like it physically offended her. 

She started pacing. Taylor trudged over to retrieve her knife in silence. Brian stood frozen and awkward. 

“But,” Lisa went on, “we know a dirty little truth about you, too, don’t we?” She cast a look in my direction, mock sweetness. “Or should I say… not so little?” 

I didn’t move. I didn’t blink.

“Nobody knows Apex is Morgan. That Morgan is Phoenix Strike. That you’re all three. Or maybe it changes by the day.” Her grin widened. “You were right before! It is complicated.”

My claws sank into the concrete with a sharp crunch. I hadn’t meant to do that.

Mutually assured destruction. 

“Maybe you’ve told a few people. Trusted ones. But have you told them everything?” She asked. My tail hissed softly across the floor as I shifted.

She leaned in, her voice dipped to a lower, knowing tone. “Do they know the real truth? The one you keep so close that you haven’t whispered it out loud?” 

“Lisa,” Brian warned. His tone was barbed. Serious.

She looked smug. The cat with its paw in the fishbowl. Her grin full-on Cheshire.

“And you do, Tattletale?” I asked, voice flat and dangerous. There were blades just under the surface. The implications that she’d make this personal.

I didn’t know precisely what she was hinting at. I hated that she might be right.

“There’s someone. A friend. A teammate. A sibling, maybe? Someone you love–” Her voice was a scalpel, her words making incisions. “...And you haven’t told them that the you sitting upstairs earlier? That’s not the real one.”

I felt my tail flick behind me, stirring dust, the hiss of my skin on concrete speaking in ways I couldn’t. My wings vibrated along my back, nearly replicating the sound of my tail. I didn’t trust myself to speak in this moment. 

If I had lips, I’d be sneering.

“Lisa! Stop!” Brian barked. Commanding.

She raised her hands, placating. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I poke too hard sometimes.” She turned and met my many eyes. “But you didn’t maul us. Didn’t fly off. Didn’t scream about justice and morality.”

She paused, adding in a softer tone: “That tells me a lot.” I heard inflection, or maybe reflection in her voice.

I drew a deep, slow breath. 

Just another fighter. Her words are her fists. Getting in your head because that’s what she does, and she doesn’t have an alternative. I have to stay centered.

“You’re not out for revenge. You’re not here to throw us in tentacle cuffs.” She ventured.

“You sound awfully sure of yourself,” I commented.

Her voice didn’t waver: “You’re looking for purpose. A second chance. A do-over. And you know what? So are we.”

Double-speak. That could’ve meant the bank job, or what they just did to me. Maybe both.

Lisa’s smile thinned. “So here’s my pitch, Apex. Let’s quit pretending this is a hostage situation. Nobody here wants a fight. And even if we did, none of us would be standing at the end of it.” She nodded to Brian and Taylor.

She took another step towards me, spreading her hands wide: “You’re smart, you’re strong. You want to help people.” 

Don’t. I didn’t speak it, but I thought it with everything I had.

“You don’t need a cape to do good,” she added. “Sometimes all it takes is being in the right place, at the right time, and with the right people.”

I scoffed: “Yeah? Where’s the altruism in robbing a bank, terrorizing people, and traumatizing people? I had friends there.”

Lisa didn’t flinch, didn’t miss a beat: “You don’t know half, hell, a third of what we do. You’re in the dark. So is the PRT. That bank job? It was a contract. A job. Not some personal thrill for us.”

“Yet you still did it.”

She pointed straight at me. “If this world was black and white, you’d be working with the Protectorate right now. Not here like this, with your dreams shattered on the floor like a dropped snow globe.”

I flinched.

Brian spoke up, surprising me. He’d been quiet since my outburst, like he was keeping the temperature low.  “We’ve been fighting the ABB. Disarming bombs. Getting people out. The night it all started? They hit us . Declared war.” 

He nodded in Taylor’s direction. “She got hurt. Badly.”

Taylor didn’t say anything, but her expression darkened, and she nodded.

Brian folded his arms. “While the army and the PRT is running crowd control, we’ve been in the streets. You want to make a difference? You could be doing it with us.”  

“I have been out there,” I said, more defensive than I meant to sound.

But I’m only one person. Or pretending to be. I don’t even know anymore. And I’ve been trying to follow the PRT’s lead. Trying to watch, to help. Maybe… maybe I’ve been going about it the wrong way. 

Lisa broke the silence: “You know Brian. You know Taylor.” She gestured at both of them in turn. 

I gave a small nod.

Where are you going with this?

“You’ve fought monsters before. Real ones. Can you look at either of them and tell me they’re like that? That they’re thrill-seeking sadists? That they’re cold-blooded killers?”

I turned my head, just enough to show I was looking at each of them in turn. My tail flicked. A claw tapped against the cement, soft and sharp.

“They don’t…” I started to say.

Was I wrong? 

By all accounts, the bank had been a nightmare. But maybe the outcome hadn’t been the intent. Maybe it had spiraled. Maybe Victoria was right in her assessments of them.

I considered the many mixed reactions I’d garnered from people over the past couple of weeks, getting out in the city. The wild rumors, lies, speculation about me online.

“No,” I said, finally. “They don’t strike me as the type.”

Brian stepped forward: “Can we salvage this?” His voice was unsure, tinged with remorse. “I’m willing to take full responsibility. It was my call to go for the takedown. It went wrong. We- I thought Phoenix Strike was a brute. Could take a hit. We wanted to disable, nothing more.” He clenched a fist, angry about something, maybe at himself. “God’s honest truth, Morgan. I wouldn’t want to kill someone.” 

I stared at him. The room was still, silent. It felt like nobody was breathing.

I believe him.

“What are we salvaging?” I asked after a long pause. “What even is this?” I swept a claw between the three of them, then back at myself.

Brian turned to Lisa, and they shared a look. An exchange of subtle cues, body language, eye contact. But I didn’t know either of them well enough to decipher it.

“Can I trust you not to react if I use my smoke to talk to Lisa in private for a second?”

A dozen possibilities raced through my head. They could run. Regroup. Plan another strike. Call in backup.

Or they could be confused and trying to do the right thing, too. I can’t let paranoia twist my thinking.

I tapped a big claw on the concrete. Slow and deliberate.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

I’d gotten a feel for Brian during our sparring sessions. He didn’t rattle easy, didn’t cheat. The other two? They struck me as the type who’d fight dirty if the odds tilted against them.

But Brian? I wanted to trust him. To believe he wasn’t a bad guy.

“Fine. But, go to the corner. Away from the entrances and exits.”

“Absolutely. We won’t be more than a minute or two.” His relief was palpable.

They moved. Brian conjured his smoke, cloaking the far corner and the foot of the spiral staircase—but not the stairs themselves. Smart. Or maybe just careful. Maybe both.

That left me and Taylor.

I turned my head to face her, keeping a very close eye on the smoke in the corner. The moment anything felt off, I was going through the wall and out. No second warning.

I watched her in the silence. This is the girl who’d cracked me over the head, now standing with bugs clinging to her. Her eyes held guilt. There was anger present, too.

I’d suspected it from that day in the coffee shop together. The weight in her voice, the stiffness in how she carried herself. I didn’t know what she was, but I knew there was something off. Not the everyday mask most of us wear. This was a parahuman hiding in plain sight. Just like me.

I wanted to jab at her. Say something biting. Bleed out some of the betrayal, frustration, and pain into words with honed edges.

Instead, I asked her: “How long?”

Taylor blinked. “What?”

“How long have you had your powers?”

Maybe I was opening a door. Maybe I was closing one. That part was up to her.

She crossed her arms, shifted her stance, glanced away. I thought she’d closed the door. Then, quietly: “Since January. Right after winter break.”

She looked back up at me. Met my gaze and held it.

“How long have you been like that? Been Apex? Was Phoenix Strike ever real?”

I moved, and she stiffened for a fraction of a moment. I shifted my bulk, taking my weight off my hands and settling down lower, onto my elbows.

My voice came out quieter than I’d ever heard it before. It was still deep, and resonant, but this was the most vulnerable Apex had ever been.

“I- I don’t know. Maybe always, from the first day I triggered. I never liked my power. It terrified me, and sometimes it still does. I was in therapy. Phoenix Strike was real. She always was. But she…” My hair writhed restlessly on my neck and shoulders.

I was reminded of Jessica Yamada’s words. That sometimes you did need to voice your feelings, and doing so could lead to better things. 

“I used maybe five percent. One percent, of my power as Phoenix Strike. I was mortified by what people would think if I ever showed more. I gave it everything outside my power, but I was still a joke. And I got fired for it.”

I squeezed a fist tightly, a gurgle emanating from my huge forearm, my connective tissues creaking under the intense force I was generating.

“Phoenix Strike was afraid of being a monster. She’s gone now. Graduated. Rode off into the sunset. Apex doesn’t have a choice in the matter, but Apex is done hiding, done being scared, done being lonely.”

Taylor stepped over, cautious, but less so than I’d expected. She sat on my hard forearm, facing away from me. I didn’t move. I barely breathed. I didn’t want to ruin whatever this was.

“Where’s that leave Morgan?” She asked.

I looked over at the corner, where Brian and Lisa had vanished into the smoke. Then back at her.

She didn’t look at me, just sat there, hunched, waiting.

“I’m still holding on to her,” I said, softly. “But she’s slipping. And I don’t know if I can get her back if she falls.”

Chapter Text

A long silence stretched between us. Taylor still sat on my arm, quiet. I stayed just as still, lost in the vulnerable admission I’d made seconds ago.

Taylor didn’t strike me as someone who opened up easily. She seemed like the reactive type—more likely to answer questions than volunteer anything on her own.

So it caught me off guard when she was the one to break the silence. “I’m not scared of my power. But there are times when I feel frustrated with it. The fight with Lung. Bakuda. The way it makes me look.” She held a hand out and looked at it, moths fluttering from fingertip to fingertip, a cockroach and earwig crawling around the back of her hand.

I had thoughts, plenty of them, about what she had said. But first, I had to check myself. There were still hot coals in my chest, flickers of roiling malice from just minutes ago. I thought back to Melody hugging me in the hallway, then telling me I was still deep on her shit list. I turned my thoughts to Taylor, and her reactions to the times I had attacked her in the confrontation earlier. She didn’t respond to physical threats with fear, but with anger. She’d been hit by the guilt trip of almost having killed me.

Fuck me. A part of me still wants to hurt her for what she did, even knowing it wasn’t really intentional. But I think she’s already hurting. I’ve never wanted to connect with someone this badly and felt so constantly shut out. Let’s… just take this slow.

“I heard that you all took Lung down. That’s crazy. He’s one of the strongest capes in the city.”

“It wasn’t all of us.” She didn’t look at me when she said it. Her head dipped downward slightly, and one sneakered foot shifted on the concrete.

“It was just me.” A pause. “I hadn’t joined them yet. I was alone.” 

She said it like the words tasted wrong in her mouth. Like the admission made her skin crawl.

“It was me or him. I was going to die. I didn’t mean to go that far.”

Wait. What? How?! That is insane!

“Taylor, I’m… speechless.” She twitched. 

“You single-handedly took down one of the most dangerous villains in the city– Lung– with just your bugs? 

My voice caught. “That’s… I don’t even know what to call that. Amazing. Insane? Next-level.”

But- wait. Hang on.

“Who else knows? The truth, that it was you alone?”

“Armsmaster,” she said. Her voice tightened around the name. “My team.” She nodded towards the blob of darkness in the corner.

I let out a frustrated sigh, and for the first time since sitting down, Taylor twisted to look at me.

“You know him.” It was less a question than a statement.

“I do. Did.” I searched my brain for words that could untangle the snarl of feelings I had about Armsmaster. Colin. Half respect, half revulsion. A heaping helping of bitterness.

Taylor studied the blank, inhuman not-face of my mask. I thought of dropping it briefly, but decided against it. Too soon after the betrayal, and right now, I was fully Apex.

“...He’s an asshole,” I finally said.

“How so?” she asked. I was starting to recognize that Taylor didn’t ask questions lightly. Every one of them had weight. A purpose. I suppose we shared that in common.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to build bridges here. Or if the others were even listening. But once again, I realized I didn’t care as much as I would have expected.

“He’s self-centered. Cold. Detached. Manipulative, even.”

I paused, thinking about what Dragon had said. The way people danced around criticism. 

“He’s career-obsessed, and not in a good way. Bad with people. Rude.” 

Another pause. “But… not entirely bad. He’s brave. Incredibly skilled. Not exactly leadership material, but he runs ENE well enough. Honestly, the same flaws that make him unbearable also make him effective.”

Taylor pursed her lips in thought. When she next spoke, it was barely audible, even for my enhanced senses. “Do you trust him?”

“No,” I whispered back. “Absolutely not.”

I took a breath, bitterness bleeding through. “He’s the one who blocked my Protectorate invitation. Got me kicked out of the PRT entirely.”

“Mm,” A noncommittal sound, low in her throat.

Her questions made me wonder about her relationship with him. And I was certain that she had one. Armsmaster had ‘subdued and arrested’ Lung that evening, something the Wards and I were stunned and impressed by. But thinking back on it now, the announcement was grossly lacking in detail. Who would question the results of Lung in PRT holding? 

I’d stick that thought on the back burner for now. There was one other thing I wanted to talk to her about.

“Taylor,” I said, and she looked up, her gaze pulling away from the bugs on her hand.

I tried to think of a way to pass on the advice Dragon gave me. Something Taylor might actually hear, without brushing it off. “About your power. And mine, too. I had those same feelings. I talked to someone, one of the smartest people in the world. And she told me: appearance matters. But what you do with it matters more.

My tail rustled softly on the floor behind us. “People judge quickly. The bugs, my body. But what sticks? What do they remember? It’s our actions.”

I hadn’t forgiven her. I wasn’t sure I could, not yet. But I didn’t want to be the kind of person who let silence rot away what might have been. I try. That’s who I am. A hero, even now. Trying to find a path forward that isn’t just blood and pain. 

Her expression shifted, softening, and she opened her mouth to speak just as Brian and Lisa stepped out of the dissipating smoke. Their footsteps were soft, their presence heavy. The room changed. Taylor straightened from her slouch but remained sitting on my forearm.

Whatever had just passed between us… it was gone now. Back to masks and politics.

“Are we interrupting something?” Lisa asked, voice teasing like an edge, but this knife was already dulled on my hide.

I ignored the barb, joke, whatever it was.

“Sorry about the delay. We had a bit of a debate, and here–” Brian waved a crude tin foil envelope held in his hand. He unwrapped it and held out my phone like a peace offering.

Right.

I held my body perfectly still. Then, without a twitch or tell, a single tentacle slid forward and took the phone from his hand. Brian’s reaction told me everything: I’d hit the mark. I was in Apex mode. My goal was to unsettle, disturb, to make unease for villains. The complete lack of motion, followed by a tentacle slithering into his hand and taking my phone back?

Oh yes. I need to experiment more. I want to be able to truly terrorize even the most hard-edged criminals.

“Answers that question,” Lisa said dryly. I could tell the effect wasn’t lost on her, either.

“We have a proposal,” Brian said to me.

“How about you start with an apology?” I countered.

“Morgan, I trul–” Brian started, and I cut him off.

“Not you.” I lightly tapped Taylor on the crown of her head with a second tentacle. She flinched. “And not her. There’s guilt and remorse. I can smell it on both of you.” I lied. 

I think.

I turned the same tentacle toward Lisa, straightening it like a javelin.  “You, on the other hand…”

Lisa went still.

The nearly ever-present grin didn’t vanish, not immediately. But it froze, and her eyes flicked around sharply like she was watching something uncoil. Reading me, measuring temperature, weighing risks.

Her lips parted. Closed again. Her brain must have been moving a mile a minute, probably with the help of her power, whatever it may be.

“You want a real apology.” It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I could have been inanimate.

She exhaled slowly, then rolled her neck with exaggerated care. When she looked back, she wasn’t smiling.

“I’m sorry.” 

Quiet. Flat. Real. Then, softer: “I pushed too far, you didn’t deserve that.”

I watched her. No deflection. No spin. Just the words. My tentacle hovered in the space between us like a lingering question mark.

“I get it,” she continued. “You’ve got every reason to be pissed. Really pissed. I misread you, glossed over things, and almost got you killed. Then I made it personal and turned it into a power play.”

A pause.

“That was ugly. I can’t take it back, but I can own it.”

Brian blinked. Even Taylor looked over at her, surprised.

A slow, heavy silence stretched.

“I’m good at reading people,” Lisa muttered. Maybe to Brian, maybe to herself. “And I’m reading that if I tried to joke this off, spin it, redirect things… You’ll walk. Or worse.”

I didn’t respond.

She held her hands out to her sides at waist level, palms open. I could see the glisten of sweat on them. “So that’s me. Apologizing. No tricks, no games.”

I nodded once, resolutely, and withdrew the accusatory tentacle, tucking it back into my updo.

“Thank you,” I told her, and the heat and testiness were gone from my voice. “It means a lot to me that you committed.” 

I drew in a long, steadying breath and exhaled slowly. “Alright. What is this proposal?”

Brian cleared his throat. “We want you to join us–”

I snorted and kicked up a bit of dust in the process.

He held up a hand, and I held my tongue: “Join us for an important meeting tonight. One we–” he purposefully looked over at Lisa, then back to me. “...think you will have quite an interest in, provided you can look past your initial reactions.”

I wasn’t aware of any meetings, besides the one I had this afternoon with Faultline’s Crew. But okay, let’s play this out.

I cracked my jaw open enough to extend a couple of feet of tongue and lick off some dust that had accumulated on the upper slopes of one of my eyes. Drawing it back into my mouth, I said: “Okay, what meeting? And if it’s so important, why am I only finding out about it half a day before it happens?”

Lisa licked her lips and stepped forward to answer that. “This is the part you’re not going to like.” 

I sighed.

I can already tell this is a fucking terrible idea. 

She continued: “It’s at a neutral ground location, a dedicated meeting spot for–”

I want to facepalm right now.

“For villains,” I said, finishing her sentence, my tone flatter than a sheet of printer paper. “...Which is why I haven’t heard a peep about it.”

This is stupid. But she isn’t. She’s obviously some sort of thinker.

My tail hissed along the floor with my agitation. “Fine. Spell it out for me, because I’m not getting the mental picture where this makes any level of sense.”

Lisa raised both palms as if to slow me down. “I get it. On paper? Terrible fucking idea. You walk into a known villain meeting, and someone takes a photo? Your whole second chance goes up in smoke. I know the PRT rules better than most. They’re not going to ask questions. They’re going to burn you at the stake just to make a point.”

She paused, watching me. Measuring.

“But let me ask you something.” She stepped closer. “When’s the last time they gave a damn what you actually did? You saved people. Fought back. Took hits for the team. Still got canned.”

My tail twitched.

Lisa continued. “You’ve already been pushed out of the system. The only reason they haven’t slapped a label on you is because you haven’t made them mad enough yet. So yeah, you’re right. This could get you labeled. Or?”

She smiled, not quite smug this time. Just sharp.

“Or it could get you results. There’s going to be big players at this meeting. People with insight into the ABB, their movements, their next moves. Do you want to help? To hurt them where it matters? You come with us. You show restraint. You listen. Maybe you ask a question. No mask-drop, no powers on display. Just ears and eyes.”

Her voice dipped into something just a little more serious. “We’re not asking you to throw in with villains. We’re asking you to use the access being offered and get something you want back from it.”

Brian spoke next. “She’s not wrong. This could potentially be really bad for you. We don’t want to get you tangled up in any of our affairs. But consider this. The city’s already in a state of emergency. The army is patrolling the streets. People you know and care about are at risk right now. Don’t you want to hear what’s being discussed?”

I mulled it over. This wasn’t an Endbringer event: no universal truce, no unity. But it was bad. The military was here. People were dying. Terror gripped the city. And there were precedents. Cities where heroes and villains had set aside their differences to protect civilians.

It was plausible, maybe even probable, that should something get wielded against me, I could use those other precedents in my own defense.

Reluctantly, I voiced this opinion: “There are incidents where there are states of emergency declared far out of the realm of normality where heroes and villains can work together without… serious repercussions.”

Taylor turned to face me. She’d been her usual quiet self so far. She asked: “Maybe a slightly different perspective: if you did attend, and we did form a coalition to go after the ABB and Bakuda, wouldn’t you rather be present for those battles than absent?”

She looked up at me, sharp, focused, that intensity once again back out in full. “Would you be content knowing people like Kaiser or Hookwolf were fighting innocent hostages forced to act against their own wishes because of Bakuda?”

My wings buzzed, not really moving air, but vibrating in place.

Fuck! Hookwolf. Kaiser. They wouldn’t save hostages, they’d turn them into examples.

“No.” My voice was flat. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”

Lisa broke into that stupid-ass grin of hers. I’d roll my eyes if they weren’t buried under two inches of hard plate.

“There’s a few things you should probably be ready for,” Brian cautioned me.

“Assuming I’m going,” I said. He nodded.

I sighed. “Go on.”

“Two big things,” he said, counting on his fingers. “Probably more, but these are the big ones.” 

A brief pause. Maybe he was thinking of how he wanted to put it, or something.

“The first is that you haven’t met the rest of the team yet, and they can be a little tricky.” 

“Regent doesn’t take anything seriously, and Bitch can be… confrontational,” Taylor offered.

I thought for a moment. “I’m used to the first sort. Clockblocker and Kid Win are both jokers. The second? I’m not worried. If she tried anything, she’d probably just wind up hurting herself.”

“Although… I wouldn’t want that,” I added.

“She’s tough. And her dogs have torn through brutes before.” Brian said, and there was pride in his voice. I hated that I liked it.

“Any of them weigh a few tons?” I asked, rows of teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

Brian blinked, glancing at me. “Okay, yeah, I get it. You’re big, but come on.” He gave me a look. “You’re not that big.”

“Brian, she’s not just big,” Lisa said. “She’s got triple the limbs, a tree trunk for a tail, and she’s covered in organic tank armor.”

Taylor knocked lightly on my forearm. The sound it made? Like tapping concrete.

“And number two?” I asked the three of them.

Lisa raised a finger in the air. “The real tricky part.”

She started pacing. “You’re going to get called out. Put on blast. No way around it. You’re not just some unknown lurking in an alleyway. You’ve been joking around with the good guys on PHO. People are watching.”

“Your maybe-hero status? It’s going to stand out. The villain crowd? Not exactly big on nuance. Lots of paranoia. Lots of ego.” 

She stopped and turned, dropping a fist into her palm: “You’re going to have to sell the fact you belong there. Hard.”

“It’s neutral ground, no powers, no getting physical. Just attitude.” She flashed a grin. “You need to ooze evil. And while you’ve got some moves, they come off more spooky than villainous.”

I wanted to argue. But she had a very good point. This wasn’t public relations. This wasn’t tactful and carefully groomed redacted statements. I was out of my league going into this, but I wouldn’t get a free pass sitting with a group. My form drew attention, and my status would be tossing fuel on the fire.

I tapped a claw on the floor.

I am walking into a lion’s den. I need to know where the walls are.

“What’s the space like? Size, shape? Interior, exterior?” I needed to get some sort of a mental picture of what I’d be working with, or in.

“Inside a small business, commercial building, hard floor, drop ceiling. Mixed seating, some open floor space. You should-yeah, you’ll fit through the doors, no issue.” Lisa answered.

Threat displays, stancing, posturing… All would be heavily limited by the space. I’d be limited to words, my bulk, and maybe a small display or gesture.

“This is not going to be easy,” I admitted.

“No,” Lisa nodded. “It’s not.”

“I mean, I’m trying to think of some kind of prop or stunt I could pull that wouldn’t just come across as a gimmick. What am I going to do, like, prowl in there wearing a severed head on a chain?”

She blinked. “Okay. First off? Love the dark humor. Second? Ew. Third? No, still ew. Sure, that’s evil, but ‘serial killer’ isn’t the vibe that says let’s team up with this person.”

“Not all of us have ominous swarms and smoke machines.” I snarked right back.

I scratched a frowny face into the floor with my claw.

“I’m not– I’m not saying this to be an asshole or crack jokes, but I can’t just go rob a bank this afternoon and then show up like, ‘Hey guys, freshly minted evil monster here.’”

“I’m honestly stumped. Fighting’s out. Getting nasty is out. We’ve covered that. I don’t have a crime resume, or the desire to go make one with the limited time I have today. I don’t want to ride coat-tails, for the obvious reason we went over earlier, but also because that then fucks with your shit.”

I went back to tapping. “Making threats is going to sabotage the effort, if not get me kicked out. I’m at a loss.” 

Lisa piped up first: “Okay, so maybe you’re not scary because of what you have done, but what you could do. Don’t posture. Don’t explain. Just watch. Let them fill in the blanks themselves in terms of what you’re capable of.”

Brian’s contribution came off a little weak, but it was heartfelt: “You don’t have to fake being a villain. Look like someone who isn’t playing around. You’re tired of Bakuda’s shit, and you want in on the action.”

Taylor was quiet, contemplative: “You can’t convince them you’re evil in this situation. Just convince them you’re dangerous and willing to act. If they think you’re pointed at their enemies, they might tolerate you.” Almost as an afterthought, she said: “Most villains don’t trust each other anyway.”

Hm. I can’t convince them I’m a villain. Maybe I can convince them I’m not a hero, either.

What’s my angle? What’s my edge?

What does Apex do? What good am I if I can’t play this hand when the chips are down?

I turned inward. Considered the shape of my power, not the surface effects, but the feeling of it.  The presence inside my skull, present from the day my life changed forever. The pressure of the ocean. The voice of the sea. Whispers without words.

Something vast. Titanic. Scale beyond reason. Mass and energy where numbers lost all meaning.

Then I thought about myself: not who I was now, but who I needed to become.

To be a leader.

To be a symbol.

A new name. A new shape. A second chance after being laughed off the stage.

Those are heroic qualities. Maybe villainous, too. Either way, they required buy-in. Commitment. Clarity. And right now, I was a contradiction.

Could I humble myself the way a hero never would? 

Could I reduce myself deliberately to a weapon or a tool? A monster on a leash?

Yes, if that’s what it took to get in the room. To stop what was happening in the city.

I am a monster.

I don’t have to sell them on a villain identity. I don’t need a story, a resume, a manifesto. I don’t even need to pretend that I belong in their ranks.

I just needed to make it clear what I can do, and that I’m willing to do it.

For now.

My tail curled, my claws flexing. My mask showed nothing, but inside, my thoughts crystallized into purpose.

Let the others posture. Let them jockey for position. Preen and pander.

I wouldn’t beg. I wouldn’t plead.

Most villains don’t trust each other anyway. Taylor’s words.

Let them wonder: if they pushed me out, would their enemies pull me in? I’d offer myself as a weapon, and dare them not to use me.

I rolled my neck, eliciting some pops and crunches, and brought my mask down front and center on The Undersiders. I reached a tentacle out and tapped Taylor in the middle of her back, and she stood up from her seat on my arm.

“I know what I’m doing now.” A simple statement.

A moment of stillness in the space, and then Brian asked: “Well, care to share with us?”

Lisa added: “We bring you. We let Apex walk into the meeting with the rest of us.” She leaned against a beam. “We’re sticking our necks out in a big way.”

I responded to Brian. “The attendees of the meeting are heading into a war. Three known upper-tier capes. Dozens or hundreds of armed gangsters. Hundreds or more conscripts with their heads on the proverbial chopping block. A threat sufficient enough to warrant calling in the army.” 

I had their attention.

I gestured one clawed human hand towards Taylor, giving credit where it was due: “Do you leave a loaded gun sitting on the table when you walk out into a warzone?” 

I shifted my head slightly, addressing Lisa: “You’re not vouching me in. You’re aiming me.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Is that going to be enough?”

A grin broke Lisa’s momentarily thoughtful expression. She snapped her fingers.

I stood up, all twelve feet of me.

Taylor didn’t speak, but I saw her eyes on me. We both knew she understood what I meant. What I was choosing.

Lisa nodded. “Alright then, big girl. Let’s make some waves tonight.” 

Chapter Text

I left the meeting with The Undersiders not long after I had distilled down my angle for the meeting tonight. I had a meeting with Faultline I didn’t want to miss, and time was catching up to me after everything that had happened that morning.

I knew where I needed to go. I thought about changing, but my clothing was destroyed, and I was short on time. It was probably better to go as Apex anyway. Brian unchained the massive bay doors on one side of the base at my request. They were stiff from disuse, but with a little persuasion from someone big and blue, they groaned back into service. I had to meet them back at their base later in advance of the meeting anyway. I’d taken off in the empty street outside their base and headed for my destination.

What a wild morning. Accidental almost-assassination. Quadruple unmasking, tension so thick you could chew it. I wish I could tell my friends. I wish I had that luxury.

There were unspoken rules to cape life. There was no comprehensive list, more like a shared language. Variations across cities, factions, and teams. But the general goal? Don’t burn the entire house down when you’re trying to settle a fight in the kitchen.

Don’t kill without cause. Don’t drag the family into it. Respect secret identities. Have some decency with cape minors. Don’t be filthy. Don’t cross those lines nobody can walk back from. Some applied more to villains than they did to heroes, as I understood it. Things like not involving the masses outside deliberate public displays, and not being a rat.

There were exceptions, of course. Usually with footnotes. Pages of them. And if someone decided to try and burn or rewrite the book?

You better hope you’re scarier than all the people who wrote it.

On some level, the whole Heroes and Villains thing? It was a business. A big one at that. Mass-casualty events, genocides, serial killers? They were bad for everyone’s bottom line.

Then there was the biggest unwritten rule of them all: You respected the truce during Endbringer events. Breaking it? Might as well write out your own death sentence.

I didn’t want to think about Endbringers right now. The landmass-wrecking, city-leveling nightmares with no known origin and no known way to kill. The best you could do was minimize their damage with giant teams of capes of any and all persuasions. Thus the truce. The alternatives? You were on your own. You faced death incarnate, ran without backup, or joined the wave of mass migration in their wake.

My psyche had been through the dryer on high heat and full tumble this morning, but honestly? I wasn’t in a terrible mood.

Nobody died. We learned things. I walked away with weird relationships I didn’t expect, different from the ones I went in looking for. 

Plus I made that green-eyed bitch eat her hat in front of her friends. That really helped.

I was nearing my destination, flying low and slow. High enough to buffer most of the downwash, low enough to avoid sounding like an evil helicopter. I wasn’t here to terrorize a city already gripped by fear and raw nerves from tinkertech bombings. The city was eerily quiet for an early Saturday afternoon. Cars still moved. People still walked. But everything felt a bit off. Lighter than it should be, like a festival that had gotten rained out halfway through.

Cars were stopped at one intersection, a military checkpoint set up scanning vehicles for obvious gang activity or transporting suspicious-looking tinker things. Faces hidden behind gasmasks, full combat gear strapped tight, the soldiers tracked me as I passed overhead. Fingers pointed. Radios clicked. No guns came up, and I was genuinely grateful for that. Say what you want about the military, when they’re deployed like this, they’re professional.

A marked PRT SUV with a sensor package on the roof rack tracked my flight past with a motorized camera. Kids pointed. Teens and adults pointed mobile phones at me. There were a couple of screams, but not many. Most people who got spooked ducked into a doorway or under an overhang. Between the sound of my flight and the unique shadow I was casting, my traveling around the city was anything but low-key.

There it is. Not open, maybe too early, maybe due to the state of the city. No lines. No thudding bass. But even without neon and noise, nightclubs are hard to mistake.

My many eyes scanned the building and the perimeter. Looked quiet. I circled around lazily, scoping out entrances. I could probably fit through the front doors without an issue and without looking clownish. 

There.

A loading dock with roller doors on the back of the building. Perfect for all your nightclub supplies, band gear, and traveling mercenary needs. 

Some vehicles were parked around the back of the club and the dock. I was pretty confident in my landing skills, but not confident enough that I wanted to risk damaging anything or pissing them off. I did another pass around, this time coming to a hover a bit further out in the parking lot where it was clear and empty. The property was very well-maintained, and the blast of wind as I came in for a landing only sent some cigarette butts, scraps of paper, and dust flying.

I dropped the last ten feet onto the asphalt, my wings folding, tucking, and lowering behind me. I took a step back, looked down, and clicked my tongue. I’d left pawprint imprints in the parking lot. They were relatively shallow, but it was still a mix of unfortunate and embarrassing.

Nothing says this ass got mass like stamping your pawprints into the pavement. Subtlety: not on the menu today.

I straightened up to my full height and let my gaze sweep across the back of the building. The wind died, lingering dust settling. My tail swayed behind me, ready and waiting. A heavy steel service door opened and thumped against a rubber stopper. A woman stepped out, descended the stairs with purpose, and briskly walked over to a very expensive-looking murder vehicle: an all-black SUV. 

She was tall, over six feet, if I had to guess. Built like a brick wall. Solid muscle, easily over two hundred pounds, and not an ounce of it wasted. She had on a charcoal jumpsuit, red trim on the cuffs and lapels paired with mean-looking black tactical boots.

Her hair was dark brown and ear-length, parted hard to one side, with the other side shaved. Not what I’d call conventionally attractive, but she moved like a pro fighter, and that was its own kind of striking. Hopping into the driver’s seat of the SUV, it roared to life and pulled out slowly. She never seemed to even blink at my presence. Strange. A white decal on the back quarter panel caught my eye: a triangle with a vertical sword and a band of flames across the middle. Beneath it, the letters: “RSI.” I filed it away. 

The door on the club clicked shut behind her. No handle. 

I stuck to the plan and walked over to the loading dock. I wasn’t surprised they knew I was here; rooftop cameras dotted the building like sentries. What did surprise me was the roller doors lurching into motion just as I arrived.

Newter was waiting for me on the other side, leaning against the wall beside the door controls. I recognized him from the photos on his Wiki page. He was barefoot, wearing stylish jeans and a half-buttoned, breezy white shirt. He had a tattoo on his chest of a symbol I didn’t recognize. He was, honestly, rather handsome. Neon-orange skin, bright red dye-job hair, and sky blue eyes–all of the eye, like mine–but with odd, animalistic pupils.

I glanced around the interior. It was exactly what you’d expect a nightclub loading bay to look like. Empty kegs awaiting return, shelves with food and drink supplies, tons of room to move around freight. I dropped onto all fours, flexing my fingers backward so I didn’t gouge the floor, and half-slinked, half-climbed up and through the doorway. My tail followed me like a mighty serpent, and I made sure to draw it away from the door when I was inside, so Newter could see I was through.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re really quite large?” Newter asked me with a cheeky grin.

“I have heard it a time or two,” I said as dryly as ash.

He laughed. “Damn. I’d give you a high-five for your sense of style. Let’s hear it for team walking-on-all-fours!”

I knew my helmet was unsettling. I’d studied it enough, Apex’s face, its expressionless geometry. Monolithic. Alien. Menacing in geometry, material, and arrangement. No expression. Hard armor and lidless eyes: black and glossy, like globes of pitch. The beaked helm curved forward, with my jaw tucked in beneath, made of interlocking plates that clicked and shifted like insect mandibles when I spoke.

My mouth didn’t move like a human’s. When it did–eating, yawning, or for effect–the nightmare came out. Rows of teeth. The suggestion of something wrong.

I turned my head fully to face him.

What I saw wasn’t revision or disgust. It was wonder. Curiosity.

Is this what inhuman camaraderie feels like?

“Puny humanoid,” I said flatly. “Proud of four limbs in the face of the overwhelming superiority of thirteen.”

I didn’t let a hint of amusement leak into my voice.

He didn’t break eye contact, reaching a clawed hand back and grabbing his tail, giving it a shake.

“Pardon me. I stand corrected.” I stuck a foot of tongue out at him.

The grin returned, and he said: “C’mon. The big guy’s waiting to bring you to the boss. He was posted out front, but you probably made the smarter call coming in through the back.”

He led me through well-lit and broad corridors into the heart of the club.

I’d never gone clubbing before. Melody and I were underage for the boozer scene, and the laws were murky. Not that it really mattered, the past year of my life had offered exactly zero time for that kind of thing. Ward life wasn’t exactly light on the obligations, especially if you were keeping your grades above the minimum and still trying to pull your weight in costume.

Faultline, who I assumed owned and operated the place, clearly had standards. The club was clean, welcoming, and–at least outside business hours–pleasantly bright. No sticky floors. No stale beer stink. Just polished floors and quiet music playing: probably one of the employee’s playlists.

An expansive dance floor stretched out in front of me. DJ booth and stage on one side, an impressive bar on another, cozy booths and low tables tucked into the periphery. Staff were already prepping for an evening shift. The kitchen was running, and the smells wafting about were… really good.

That’s when I saw him: the man walking towards us from the front of the building.

Gregor the Snail.

He was a very large man. He had a severe, haunting presence. Morbidly obese, but not fat in the usual way. More… rotund. His skin was ghostly: shockingly pale and partially translucent. I could see the faint shapes of bones and organs beneath it, his eyelids barely masking his eyes and giving him a ghoulish Halloween-mask look. He wore the kind of clothing you wind up with nothing else fits. Heavily elasticized, functional but shapeless. Deeply unflattering.

A few weeks ago, I would have called him profoundly ugly.

But that was before.

Before watching my own flesh melt, twist, stretch, and contort into something unrecognizable. Before the blood, the bone, and the meat detonating out of shape. Before I became something different and wrong.

Huh. I’ve changed. Grown.

I glanced at myself.

I didn’t feel wrong.

Not anymore.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Gregor came to a stop before us. “Greetings, Apex,” nodding to me, then: “Newter.” I immediately liked the sound of his accent. Nordic, maybe?

“Alright, I’m heading upstairs if you need me,” Newter said with a wave, peeling off toward a nearby staircase.

Gregor looked at me. “Our meeting is upstairs. Please follow me.”

I cleared my throat and said: “I’m… very heavy. Several tons, most likely. I have some concerns about going anywhere above-ground that wasn’t built for industrial loads.” I moved my head around as if I were looking around the club floor. “This is a nice place. I would not want to damage it.”

Gregor nodded, his expression shifting to one of quiet consideration. “Do you know your exact weight?”

“Not really. I’ve never stepped on a scale.” I hesitated, then added, “Probably need a zoo scale. Or maybe a truck weigh station.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “And that presents its own challenges.” He moved behind the bar, picked up a telephone, and dialed. A short and efficient conversation followed. When he returned, he gave a small nod.

“She will come down,” he gestured. “This way.” 

I followed him back into the wide corridor, and we entered a well-furnished lounge. The room was spacious, with plush chairs, mood lighting, and a broad table dominating the center. Gregor pulled out a pair of chairs on one side of the table and set them off to the side.

“Thank you,” I said, and he moved a stout chair from the corner into place opposite and slightly to the side of me. He settled his bulk into it with careful precision, his movements slow and deliberate. I noted that he kept his hands on his lap.

I took a lying position on the carpeted floor carefully, resting with my forearms positioned crosswise under the table so my head and shoulders stuck up from the table. I was still at eye level with him, in an increasingly familiar position.

Gregor broke the near silence of the room, saying: “You move like someone trying not to break anything. But there’s more to it than just that. There is a rhythm in how you flow through space, never contacting anything.” He paused a moment, tilting his head slightly. “That speaks of great awareness. That is not how many of us move.”

I studied him for a moment. The composed way he held his hands in his lap. The way he settled his weight into the chair, deliberate, careful, dignified, even if his body defied every conventional metric of grace.

“You move like someone…” I paused, chewing on the thought.  “...someone who isn’t quite at home in their own body. Or maybe someone who used to be a fighter?” I tilted my head the other way. “There’s certainty in how you move, but also a distance.”

He went to respond, but the door opened. The energy in the room shifted, ever-so-slightly.

Faultline stepped in.

She was shorter than Gregor, but carried herself like a blade. Sharp, precise, measured. She had a black jacket over a fitted white blouse. She wore tactical pants, matte black, pocketed, synthetic fibers that moved well despite apparent durability. Boots quietly thumping on the ornate carpet.

She didn’t strut or swagger. She didn’t need to.

Her eyes scanned over me without hesitation. Calculating but not unkind. She had the sort of face that didn’t seem like it would ever fully relax, resting neutrality a few degrees away from suspicion.

“Apex,” she said, offering a nod, then glanced at Gregor. “Thank you for welcoming them.”

He dipped his head.

She took a seat next to Gregor, directly opposite me. “Welcome to the Palanquin. I understand you had a busy morning.”

Just a passing comment, but also a subtle power play. She’d known I’d been at the Undersider’s base. Did she know more? About my other forms? 

Where Gregor’s voice carried an undertone of stillness, hers instead carried steel.

What path do I take? What plays do I make? Who do I present, or in what ratio?

I’d tried open and casual earlier. Maybe it was time to be guarded.

What was it Lisa and Taylor had been saying? Less is more, or something along those lines?

“Thank you.” The bass of my voice momentarily filled the space. The room was well insulated.

She didn’t address my lack of response to her comment. “I invited you over here to discuss several topics. Let’s start with you.”

I nodded, and she continued: “Do you know what a Case Fifty-Three parahuman is?”

“I do. I do not believe I am one.” I replied.

Gregor leaned forward in his chair. “Will you explain your reasoning?”

“I was not always like this. I was the same as any other human, and through some quirk of my power, became what you see now. I have not lost any of my memories.”

Gregor leaned back a bit and asked a follow-up question: “Are you like this by choice?”

I hesitated in answering.

No. No? I suppose, in a way? I could have come as my other self. That is a… surprisingly deep question, the more I think of it. How do I answer that?

“I didn’t choose this at the start,” I said slowly. “But I keep choosing it now.”

Gregor tilted his head, listening.

“I could have come here wearing a different skin. Human, and familiar. Easier to look at.” I shifted slightly. “But that would have been dishonest. I don’t want to lie to you or myself.”

My tail slid restlessly on top of the carpet. “This form… it’s power. It’s survival. It’s some part of me, not the entirety. But not a mask, either.”

I shifted my head slightly from pointing toward Gregor to Faultline. “So no, I wasn’t always like this, but I think, deep down, I’ve been this for a long time.”

Gregor glanced upwards and brought a plump hand up to stroke his chin.

Faultline simply said: “I see.”

A moment later, she shifted back in her chair. “I’m hungry and will be having something from the kitchen.” She looked between Gregor and me, then asked: “What will you be having?” The phrasing was pushy, and I got the sense that it wasn’t entirely aimed at me.

Gregor grunted and made a face, and she gave him a flat look. His reluctance was evident: “Whatever you have, Faultline.” 

Her gaze turned to me next. I was a bit off guard, but I was hungry. I hadn’t really eaten yet today. My tentacles rustled on my shoulders. “I have food back at home, I eat… quite a lot.”

Her brow raised. “You would refuse my hospitality in my club?”

I’m having a hell of a time telling if she’s really just ripping power plays out left and right, or if she’s fucking with me, and this is a long-form bit. You know what? Fine, two can play whatever game this is.

I shrugged slightly and said: “Five of your biggest steaks, a handful of heads of lettuce or cabbage, some other whole bulk fruits or veggies. I’m not terribly picky.”

For her part, she didn’t visibly react. “Cut and cook? And dressing for the salad?”

“Whatever is big in terms of cook, blue, or rare. And sure, surprise me.”

She slipped a phone from her pocket and placed the order with the kitchen, then turned back to me. “Let’s talk about your status.”

“You want to know where I land on the board. Hero or villain?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” she said.

“Independent.” I hoped I wasn’t sabotaging something by saying it. Too late to pull it back now. Belatedly, I wondered if she and her crew were headed to the same big-bad meeting.

“Difficult. Often far messier than people expect, if they haven’t learned otherwise.” Gregor answered this time.

She said, “I’ll echo the messy part. But more importantly, the PRT won’t like it. You’ll get squeezed.”

“I don’t care what the PRT thinks,” I said, too quickly to be completely convincing.

She steepled her fingers, her eyes pinning me in place. “I don’t believe you. And regardless of what you do or don’t feel about them, it doesn’t change the facts of the matter.” 

“And those are?” I asked, calm and level.

Her reply was equally cool: “The PRT doesn’t like what it can’t control. Independent capes operating in their jurisdictions are a threat to their operations and the public’s perception of them. Your existence undermines their authority, and the severity of that undermining is directly correlated to your success.”

She tapped her index fingers together, her brows drawing closer to one another. “Have you never questioned the number of ‘villains’ doing petty, small-time crime? People who barely deserve the label? Or the policies that persist, draconian ones, that let the PRT hand out villain status however they please?”

I felt a flicker of irritation at the line of questioning. I couldn’t tell if it was because it challenged things I still held onto, or because it implied that I hadn’t already thought about them.

“What is it that you’re trying to say, exactly?” I asked. “Is this a pitch? Pick a side, wear the right colors?”

“May I ask how old you are?” Gregor’s tone was gentle. “Only so I might better understand your perspective.”

I didn’t like the implication. That my age made me naive and incapable of understanding. But... I said I’d humble myself in ways no hero would. This is the dry run before tonight.

“I am eighteen.”

Gregor nodded. No judgment from either of them.

They weren’t patronizing me, just trying to understand. That felt rare, somehow.

“May I appeal to you, Apex?” Gregor again. I dipped my head to him.

“Please consider this: we gain nothing by earning your ire.” He glanced over at Faultline as if checking the temperature of the room, and they made eye contact briefly before he continued: “Faultline and I have many years of experience between us. Is it not possible that we, at one point, stood in your shoes and walked along the path you are on currently?”

“Certainly.”

“So if our guidance feels uncomfortable, imagine how it feels for us. To see someone younger walking the same knife’s edge, risking the same mistakes. Would you not wish to reach out and speak with them yourself?” He asked, his speech a bit formal, but his tone and pose cordial.

I nodded firmly.

“You have a choice before you, Apex,” Faultline said. “If you’re content to stay on the sidelines, low-impact and unobtrusive, the PRT will tolerate a rogue or independent status.” 

She tapped her index fingers together once again and leaned forward. “But I don’t think that’s who you want to be. The way you carry yourself. The company you keep, the nature of your form. They make you a threat, whether you want to be one or not.” 

She laid her hands flat on the table. “It is my opinion that you will be forced to choose between a career with the PRT or the status of villain. I do not think independence is viable, not for long.”

She leaned into the backrest of her chair. “Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t see why not,” I agreed.

“Let’s say you leave here today. Undecided. You keep doing what you’re doing: independent hero, no backing.” She gestured toward the door. “How exactly do you plan to fund your operations?”

If my mask had eyebrows, they’d be furrowed. I had a bit saved up, but even living cheap, my expenses were draining it fast.

“Humor me, perhaps we have different ideas of what expenses mean.”

She crossed her arms. “Let’s start with the basics. You’ve got property: rented, owned, whatever. Utilities: electric, water, sewer, maybe gas. Internet. Comms setup. Then there’s food, which I’m guessing isn’t cheap for someone your size.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding.

“Next, transportation and gear. You’ve got some bases covered, flight is a big one. But say you’re injured, grounded, or need to stay unseen. At your size? You’ll need a cargo vehicle. Expensive to buy. More expensive to run.”

“Fair. I’ve thought about most of that. I’ve got solutions to some, at least.”

“Good. Now for the things you probably haven’t thought about. Medical costs. Maybe not a factor if you regenerate, but still worth remembering. You’ll need a lawyer. Or a law firm. Legal trouble is inevitable in cape life. And taxes– not the federal kind. I mean local power players. Gang taxes. Protection fees. Territory bribes.”

I clicked my tongue. “They’d have their hands full if they tried.”

That earned a lean forward. Her forearms settled on the table again, voice just a notch sharper. “I believe it. If I can be blunt, you look like you could turn a warehouse full of armed gangsters into meat chunks in seconds. You look made for violence. We’ll circle back to that. But organized crime? They don’t usually fight head-on. It’s not worth the cost. Too messy.”

“No. They’ll pay someone off. A neighbor. A city worker. Someone who’s seen you come and go. Then, one day while you’re out? They toss a five-dollar Molotov through a window. And everything you own? Gone.”

Fuck. She’s right. I could build a legend, wrap myself in fear, make people think twice, but isn’t that the opposite of what I want? Of who I’m trying to be?

I held my tongue. She continued: “Let’s say you’re on Team Good Guys. But you’re solo. Independent. You’re out fighting a battle against a bad guy. You wind up duking out in public spaces, despite your best intentions.” 

“Okay…” I tilted my head slightly.

“You get thrown through a wall. Maybe it’s someone’s home. Maybe there were three people inside. Now they’re dead. Maybe you win against Bobby Bad Guy. PRT comes, and he goes to jail. Guess who gets stuck with the bill? Property damage. Wrongful death. Civil suits. If you’re PRT? Big Brother picks up the tab. But you?” She tilted her head, just slightly. “How do you pay for it?”

This is making me deeply uncomfortable. But maybe that’s the point. Or maybe it’s what Gregor said. Lived experience, passed down like a warning flare.

“That last one, did it happen to someone you know?” I asked.

Faultline leaned back, arms crossing again. “That’s something you’d have to ask them. If they’re willing to talk about it.”

“But here’s something I can tell you, Apex, and I know it’s an ironclad truth: A huge number of villains? They didn’t choose it. They ended up here because of accidents. Collateral damage. Things they didn’t mean to do. It’s one of the most common villain origin stories out there.”

A knock at the door was followed by the delivery of food. I welcomed the arrival. This conversation was a lot. 

Sure enough, five monster steaks. I had to swallow a mouthful of spit just to keep from drooling as I leaned in for a bite. I was a good guest. I waited for the boss to tuck in first. The wait staff had brought me a giant serving fork, which cracked me up. The three of us were eating pretty much the same things, if in very different arrangements. My ‘salad’ was in a baking mixing bowl or something. Heads of lettuce and cabbage had been quartered and drizzled in a dark vinaigrette along with whole tomatoes, carrots, and cucumbers.

I celebrated a small success in shaking the two stone-cold mercs across the table from me when I grabbed the big fork in a tentacle and started eating my salad. I watched them both notice and gape. After crunching and swallowing half a cabbage, I held the fork out in the most polite manner I could manage and asked them: “What? Don’t you eat with your hair?”

The food was excellent. I completely cleaned the salad bowl and the platter of steaks. Mostly bone-in. Crunch, crunch. Growing cryptids need their calcium.

“Thank you, that was very delicious,” I told Faultline when we’d finished. I had beaten them both by a decent margin in the race to finish our meals. Huge steaks or not, they were still basically like oversized finger food. It was easier to avoid making a mess or a scene by just stuffing the entire thing in and crunching it.

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and placed it on her plate. “I hope it was at least as good as what you had planned on eating back home.”

“Do you want the polite answer or the real answer?” I asked her.

“Real. Don’t feel like you need to avoid offending me, and I prefer the information without filters. If you do offend me, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Well, I have a five-gallon bucket full of beef offal in my fridge at home. That was going to be lunch and dinner. My sense of taste is a little different now, I think. More sensitive, but maybe broader too? Nice things certainly taste better. Things that would have turned my stomach before really aren’t too bad. I eat that, and some pretty questionable stuff as well. Really helps keep those costs down.” 

“Hm. Where are you getting it from?” She asked me.

“Talking to grocers, asking for trimmings, waste, expired products, stuff like that.”

“I’d have to make some phone calls, but I’m willing to bet you can halve that cost if you were to get it directly from a slaughterhouse or meat-packing facility.”

“I–” I hesitated a moment. “That would be nice of you, but what’s the angle?”

She shifted in her seat and glanced over at Gregor, who returned the look.

“Having contacts is good. I think there are many things we could potentially offer each other, in terms of goods, services, and favors.” 

There was one thing I’d been thinking about after the overwhelming onslaught of information she’d hit me with earlier.

“You, Faultline’s Crew, are considered villains.”

“Correct,” her answer was short and to the point.

I offered a concession: “On the gray side of villains, as I understand it. Business-oriented. Mercenaries.” I paused a moment, then asked: “Is that an offensive term?”

“Mercenary?” She asked, and I nodded.

She cleared her throat and said, “depends on who you ask. Personally? I don’t think so. But the context matters, too. It’s a broad label, and there are certainly many groups under that label I wouldn’t associate with.”

Hm. That woman who left as I was coming in. She has a similar bearing to Faultline. Similar posture.

“And some that you would associate with?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Like RSI?” I asked, deliberately casual. Watching her closely.

I was taking a stab in the dark. I had no real idea who or what they were. But the woman, the vehicle, the symbol. It meant something. I could feel it.

Her eyes narrowed, and she licked her teeth. “Perhaps,” she said after a pause.

Dangerous waters.

“A word of advice, Apex.” She waited for a beat, letting the silence stretch. “Be very careful doing that. It’s like juggling while blindfolded, except you don’t know what it is you’re juggling. Maybe it’s a bowling pin, a ball, a knife, or a hand grenade.”

My jaw clicked as I went to speak, and she held up an index finger. I closed my mouth.

“I am telling you the same thing I told that girl. Trust me: those games will blow up in your face sooner or later.” 

Girl? What? 

“I am listening to you, Faultline. But I’m not connecting that last part of what you said,” I admitted.

“That is precisely the problem. There is ambiguity, assumptions are made to fill gaps in communication, and eventually, you’re going to randomly punch in the proper code to trigger an explosive.” She let that sink in a moment, then clarified: “I am speaking about Tattletale, who plays guessing games and fishes for information. As much of an asset as she can be to her team and friends, she is also a lurking liability.”

So that’s what this is. Not a warning shot. A caution sign. She’s not posturing, this is her way of trying to keep me alive.

There was no love lost between them, it was stark and apparent. But I think I was getting exactly what Faultline was trying to tell me. After all, I’d had a weighty realization strike me in the head this morning based on those very assumptions.

“There’s one thing I’m curious about,” I said, returning to the previous topic. “Do you consider yourselves villains?”

“Does it matter what we consider ourselves?” Gregor asked. At first, I thought he meant it literally. On second thought, I realized it was rhetorical.

I thought a moment. “I think it does, provided you have self-aware. And aren’t lying to yourself.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

“You’ll be judged by everything you do,” Faultline said. “And most of the time, you don’t get to pick the labels other people apply. But, to answer your question: yes, we are villains. We do illegal things—of varying severity. We have standards, our own ethics. But our business is doing the jobs no one else wants to do. Or can’t do.”

She leaned back slightly. “Most of it’s dirty. Ugly. The kind of thing the public doesn’t want to know about, and the PRT is happy to let them remain in the dark.”

“It is difficult,” Gregor added, “to walk the line between legality and morality. What is legal may not be just. What is just may be illegal.” He tilted his head. “Look up the Bad Canary case, if you haven’t already. Most reporting on it was propaganda. Do your homework.”

Faultline checked a message on her phone, then looked up. “We’ll have to wrap this up shortly. Before you go, tell me, are you aware of an important meeting happening tonight?”

I let out a slow sigh. “Yeah. I am.”

“And you have an invitation to it?” She asked.

I shook my head. “Not directly. I’ve been asked along as a very large plus one. Something, something, shared interests. I am planning on attending.”

One brow lifted. She gave a short, almost imperceptible nod. “I can imagine what those interests are. It’s not hard, given the state of things in the Bay.” A pause. “If that falls through, you may attend with us.”

She stood up, and Gregor followed suit.

“Truthfully, I’m not sure whether to thank you for that or not,” I admitted. “My presence will cause drama, probably controversy. And I’m worried the cost might outweigh the benefit.”

There was a flicker in her eyes then: intensity, calculation, something sharp behind the cool expression. “Then why attend at all?” She held up a hand before I could answer. “The real reason. No filters.”

I opened my jaw, closed it, and opened it again.

“Someone who’s probably smarter than I am asked me if I would be okay letting Empire Eighty-Eight run around, stopping innocent, mostly Asian people.” 

A low, involuntary growl crept into my voice. “ I am not.”

Gregor said: “A very good point on their part, and an honorable sentiment on yours.”

“Is that why you’re attending?” I asked them.

Faultline stopped on her way to the door, Gregor and I just behind her. She spoke without turning around: “No. We are seeking business. And if our fees are paid, we will participate to our full ability.”

Brutal.

Her words hit me hard, settling in my gut like a stone.

She turned then, meeting my eyes. Her face was impassive. “We do not hand out invitations lightly, and make no mistake, this isn’t one. But should you find yourself without a place to stay, you could do worse than here. In the meantime, keep in touch. There are mutually beneficial things we could be doing for one another. Jobs, favors, information.”

“All voluntary, of course.”

I nodded.

“Gregor will show you to the exit. I hope to see you tonight.” With that, she left.

Gregor walked me into the hallway, and when passing a staircase, asked me: “Will you wait here a moment before you leave?”

“Sure,” I said, a little absently.

He left up the stairs and was gone for a couple of minutes before returning with a sturdy canvas satchel.

“Right this way.”

We made our way back to the loading bay, retracing our steps. Gregor keyed the motor, and the rolling door began to rise with a groan.

“Please take this,” he said, extending a canvas satchel toward me. “A personal gift.”

I was a bit taken aback, but I lowered my head for him like I was in a knighting ceremony, and he looped the strap around my broad neck. I adjusted it some with my tentacles so everything was both comfortable and secure, tightening it up around my neck so it was more like a collar. With the way it hung, I could tell it was pretty heavy.

“Thank you, Gregor. Today’s conversations have been difficult… but I appreciated them.” I paused, then asked, “What’s in the bag?”

He smiled faintly. “Often, the most worthwhile conversations are the hardest to have. Inside, you’ll find a few books I believe are worth reading. Perhaps some of the answers you seek will be found in their pages.” 

He looked up at me. “But I will warn you. The material, like today, may not come easily. Don’t feel discouraged if you struggle. That’s expected.”

My curiosity sparked, but I had things to do before I headed back to Redmond Welding.

“Until later, then,” I said and made my way out.

Just before I stepped out into the sunlight, Gregor spoke again.

“A sellsword may carry their own convictions, Apex… but convictions can be bad for business.”

I turned my head slightly, listening.

“They drive you to act outside the bounds of a contract, and that takes food from your table. Understand: a mercenary who works for free is no mercenary at all. And in our world, reputation is everything.”

The shutters squeaked and the chain rattled as the door lowered. The view inside narrowed, then vanished. 

Chapter Text

I was able to get the things that I had remaining on my to-do list completed with only a few exceptions when it came time to head over to meet The Undersiders.

I was nervous. I tried channeling that into heat, a simmering focus. I couldn’t say if it worked exactly, but it did help take the edge off. Attending the meeting tonight like this, as Apex, was so much harder than doing it in human form would have been. In my other skin, I could have dressed the part. Played it cool, new on the scene, pissed off, or just another would-be recruit trying to cut her teeth.

But the problem was the unknowns. 

Very few people laid their full powers out in the open.. Everything was cloaked in mystery, all cloak and dagger. Heroes, villains. Everyone kept their cards close. You didn’t expose your hand unless you had no choice. You didn’t advertise your weaknesses.

Maybe that was just me. But I doubted it.

The real issue was the Thinkers. The Tattletales. The PRT analysts. The outliers with perceptions so far beyond normal that they broke the rules. I could be playing poker like a master. They’re over there playing their hand, and four games of chess. Some of them stayed behind the curtain: manipulators, orchestrators, silent partners. But not all.

After this morning, I’d been reminded that some of them could see things. Sniff out secrets, pierce disguises. Which means walking into this meeting came with risk. Real risk. If someone out there figured out that I could pass for human, it wouldn’t just compromise my image. It might connect back to my civilian life. The people I cared most about.

That was unacceptable.

No, Apex would be attending, from start to finish, and that included travel. I texted Taylor and told her that I was on my way. I asked her to wait outside and give me a signal: thumbs-up skyward if it was safe to land, no unexpected eyes or ears. If not, devil horns, and I’d pass by and come back when it was clear. Yeah, yeah, sue me if it’s cheesy. I wasn’t about to compromise a base of operations, and I was trying to be considerate.

She confirmed, and I took off from the out-of-service parking deck I’d been loitering in.

I’d tucked my phone and a slim wallet into the coils of my ‘hair,’ secured and out of sight. As I flew, I climbed higher than usual. Less direct and less obvious where I was headed.

The sun was down now, and the city below glowed dimly under a blanket of light pollution. Even the darker areas and unlit streets weren’t pitch black. Their street, though, was dark. No streetlights. Intentional, or just a happy accident? 

I picked out Taylor easily in the dim light. Her arm lifted, and the signal was a clear, skyward thumbs-up.

I pitched down and tucked my wings. The ground approached at a dizzying pace. Diving was everything a rollercoaster ride promised, but on steroids. About a hundred feet up, I flared my wings, swooped up hard to bleed speed, then back-thrust forwards and down at a steep angle. The sharp vector gave me room to shed momentum cleanly.

I came to a near-standstill in the air, hovering about fifty feet up, then cut and dropped. 

Free-falling the rest of the way, I aimed for the street in front of Skitter. I was trying something new. A little more dramatic than usual. I still wanted to make a splash as the big, scary monster, but without tearing up the old pavement outside their secret base. That would draw attention.

Everything about this maneuver was weighted, literally and figuratively. Higher altitude to reduce visibility and obscure my landing point for would-be observers. But that meant more energy to bleed on approach, and way more ground effect. People tended to notice sudden, localized windstorms, especially the kind accompanied by giant predatory shadows moving around.

So I was experimenting. Dive from on high to disappear from view, swoop wide to dump energy, and fall the last few stories for a mostly silent touchdown.

The trick? Not leaving a crater when I landed.

I dropped, pre-loaded my legs, and fell tail-first. I was trying to stretch the impact out over time, using as much of my body as possible to spread the load. It was kind of like a tail-first landing that flowed into a forward roll… except instead of rolling, I belly-flopped.

Contact: tail, then legs. I flexed the tail, translating vertical momentum into forward thrust. Then all four arms hit the pavement, bracing hard. Like doing a burpee with way too many limbs.

I nailed it. A couple of inches of clearance between my chest plates and the street. I pushed up to a quadrupedal stance and tucked my lower arms, then circled around my landing area and inspected my work.

No imprints. A little light scuffing from my tail, no claw marks. Perfect. 

It probably made a decent whump when I landed: six limbs plus tail, but I’d take a weird thump that could pass for a tailgate or door slam over cracked pavement any day.

Boom, trigonometry, bitch.

Skitter looked at me, her mask’s bug-eye lenses unreadable, but I could feel the stare.

“You just fell three stories, tail-first, and didn’t crack the pavement.”

I shrugged one massive shoulder. “Distributed impact, momentum redirection, and a splash landing. I’m learning,” I said.

“You’re… huge.”

“I did tell you I worked out a lot.”

“No, I mean… that should’ve sounded like a car crash. It didn’t.”

It was hard to tell where she was looking, but I imagined she was tracing over the space I’d landed in. After a moment, she lightly rapped her knuckles on the big bay doors. Quiet movement from inside, and then the side door opened, and out they came. 

I took stock of the full gang while they made their appearance.

There was Skitter. Tall and thin, to the point of androgyny. Black bodysuit with gray armor panels at all the right places. Her mask blended seamlessly into it, covering her whole face, and maybe a little more. It was hard to tell with her hair loose and out. I kicked myself internally for not putting it together sooner. The build. The hair. Obvious in hindsight. Still, I had to hand it to her: it was a kickass costume. I was honestly jealous. The bug eyes and mandibles on her jawline were excellent details.

Next was Grue. He basically wore a two-piece motorcycle suit with a modified motorcycle helmet. The visor had been replaced, or maybe modified, so it had his skull motif. It was simple, rather basic, but also quite smart at the same time. Motorcycle riding gear, the real stuff, and not the dress-up stuff? Heavily armored, impact, cut, and abrasion resistant, so you could survive bouncing off the pavement at highway speeds. It was also something you could just wear out and about, and people really wouldn’t think twice about it.

Regent looked like the odd one out of the bunch. Fancy, ornate, and very old-school clothing. Tight leggings, leather boots, a blousy shirt, and a masquerade mask. He even had a tiara on. It was ostentatious and tacky. The scepter he was carrying fit the aesthetic perfectly.

Hellhound followed behind him, hard to miss. Her costume, if it even counted as one, looked like a last-minute Halloween pickup. Work boots, grubby jeans, oversized jacket with a faux-fur collar. Hoodie underneath, hood sticking out. It might’ve been intentional, or just how she dressed. She had a solid build under all of it. Maybe she didn’t care what people thought. Maybe that was the costume.

Tattletale brought up the rear, closing and locking the building behind herself. She had on a more traditional mainstream hero outfit. A bit retro, but debatably in the ‘timeless classic’ category. Tight bodysuit, boots, domino mask, and utility belt. It was a look. Her suit was a shade of purple, with black horizontal bands at the chest and waist, with two vertical bands tying them together. There was an eye logo on her chest on top of the black band.

Regent spoke first. “Tattletale said ‘big scary monster,’ but I was picturing more teeth and fewer limbs.”

I turned my head to face him, then opened my mouth wide, displaying the nightmarish arrays of teeth. I let my tongue slide out a good foot or two, then yanked it back in suddenly and snapped my jaw shut with a clack.

“Yeah, okay. Point made. I didn’t want to sleep tonight anyway. Do you eat people?”

I replied, low and guttural: “You’re a bit slim. Maybe if I’m in a snacking mood.”

That got a laugh out of him.

Grue piped up: “Regent, Apex. Apex, Regent. Seems you two will be fine.” He gestured to the girl standing off to the side. “And that’s Bitch.”

She looked at me, beady eyes behind cheap plastic. Then she grunted. 

I preferred words, but I could work with it. I grunted back.

I turned back to Grue. “So what’s the plan for getting to this place? I could fly you all over there, but I charge per passenger, per minute.”

“Really?” Skitter asked.

Huh?

“It isn’t super far away. I was thinking we just walk over,” Grue said.

“You want all of you–” I gestured with one lower arm at the group, then at myself. “--and me, to walk across the city like this?” 

Has he been hit in the head now?

“It’s really not far. Eight blocks. Ten? Something like that. Doubt there are any checkpoints between here and there in this part of town at night.”

I gave a lazy shrug of my shoulders. “You’re the boss here with this thing tonight. I’ll defer to your judgment. If anything winds up going down with the army or PRT, though, I’m probably cutting loose rather than getting involved.”

He looked momentarily put off-stride, but I think it was more the recognition of his authority than it was the cut-and-run statement. 

“Let’s head out, then.”

They walked on the sidewalk in an awkward and seemingly random arrangement. I was thankful they weren’t doing the single-rank supervillain march down the middle of the street.

I stuck to the pavement. The sidewalks were in rough shape as it was; I didn’t want my fat ass crunching them up worse than they were.

Walking with them was strange. I mean, everything about this was strange, but that was just another day in my life lately. What stood out was the pace. How slow I had to move just to keep up. On all fours, I felt like I was sneaking through enemy territory, crawling through a dream. My limbs shifted in lazy precision, my spine and tail undulating behind me in a serpentine rhythm.

Oddly relaxing, despite the circumstances. 

I noticed Bitch kept watching me. Skitter, too, though in a more subtle manner.

I didn’t know we had arrived when we did. The businesses on the street looked like an even mix of closed, foreclosed, and abandoned. It was a bar with an old sign hanging out front called “Somer’s Rock.” Grue was right: this was the bad part of town. Bars on the windows, not out of paranoia, but necessity.

Grue held one door open while the group piled in. I held the other with my tail claws. I came in second to last, my tail releasing the door handle and snaking in dead last. 

What stuck out to me wasn’t just the coordination: it was the awareness. Even without looking, without my tail in my field of view, I knew where it was. I was aware of every inch of my body, every limb, every piece of me. The immediate area around me as well, and my position relative to everything else. Something to think about later.

The inside of the place was, to put it bluntly, a dump. Badly lit with incandescent bulbs, stained and stained wood floor. I held my breath walking over it, but it seemed like either the construction was amazing, or the wood was laid over a hard substrate. Most of the free-standing tables had been pulled into a big rectangular conference arrangement that necessitated walking around it. The Undersiders took a big corner booth, and I sat beside it, behind the tall back of the booth seating.

The place was virtually empty. A waitress, two men behind the counter, and that was it. Notable in the fact that they didn’t seem to pay an ounce of attention to my appearance. Either they were used to it, or perhaps more likely, they had seen some shit go down in this place over the years, and a giant blue fucking monster was par for the course on a Saturday night.

Seems we were first on the scene. That was good. 

The waitress came over, and they ordered drinks. Tattletale mentioned she was deaf. I waved a lower palm when she came by with a notepad. I contemplated while we waited for whoever else to show up. If this whole thing turned out to be a flop? I’d either laugh or cry. Probably both.

I’ve lived this dual-natured life for about a month now at this point. I’ve been spending about a third of my time as Morgan, a third of my time as Apex, and a third of my time asleep. I eat, drink, and do… other normal stuff as Morgan. I haven’t really noticed until now that I don’t really drink much like this. Huh.

A few minutes passed, and then they entered. Empire Eighty Eight.

Kaiser came in wearing his stupid fancy European knight armor with a crown of thorns. Fenja and Menja hanging off each arm, dressed up in their Valkyrie outfits. They were both hot, which was agony considering what ugly people they were underneath it all. 

Purity was next. Wearing an all-pure white outfit, with glowing white hair and eyes. A whole motley crew followed. E88 was a big organization… if you wanted to call it that. Big and powerful.

Rumors swirled about Kaiser and Purity. Supposedly, they were an item, but she’d been sort of fucking around doing her own thing for a bit now. Some of the E88 members present hadn’t been around much either, thought to have left the area. It was interesting seeing both of them and her here, now. It could just be that they called in all the big names for a show of force. There could be problems on the home front, though, too.

Kaiser took a seat at the head of the table. Purity didn’t sit at the table, but behind it, behind Kaiser.

I shifted the focus of my vision over to The Undersiders. They were still hanging out in their booth, watching the arrivals.

I’m not going to let Kaiser and the E88 just dictate the pecking order here. I need to keep humble, though. Maybe a middle ground?

I rose from my haunches and slinked over to the opposite end of the table from Kaiser. As much as I wanted to sit opposite him, I thought that maybe I’d go a touch less confrontational and take a position on one of the seats flanking the opposite end instead. I lifted a chair out from where I wanted to sit and slid it under the end of a nearby booth, then took a seat once again.

Kaiser and Purity watched me in silence.

I sat with my head and shoulders squared with my body, and I did my entirely motionless thing. If they were going to sit quietly, I’d be content to play the statue.

Coil entered next, alone. He took a seat where I had wanted to sit. Coil was an odd one, one of those mastermind types. A puppetmaster. His PRT records were virtually empty. The only reason I recognized him at all was the notes of scattered sightings saying “tall, gaunt, black bodysuit with white snakes.” That fits the description, but he was wearing one of those green-screen or stage body stockings that covered everything. Including the full head and face. No holes at all.

I can out-creeper you, twig man. 

Faultline and her crew entered next, including the others I didn’t have the chance to meet. Faultline, Gregor the Snail, and Newter came in first, and Spitfire and Labrynth took up the rear. Faultline walked around, and there was something between her and The Undersiders, but whatever it was, it was said or done in passing. She took a seat next to Kaiser’s side. The rest of her crew took a booth. Gregor nodded to me, and I returned it, then resumed the perfect stillness.

Grue slid out of the Undersiders' booth and took a seat at the table opposite me. We also exchanged nods.

The Merchants came in next. Skidmark, Mush, and Squealer. Skidmark looking like his typical crackhead self, Squealer rocking the Trailerpark Kitsch aesthetic, and Mush having only a small collection of random trash making up most of his body today. Guess that’s his version of cleaning up for an important meeting. 

Squealer and Mush headed to a booth, and Skidmark went to take a seat at the table.

Kaiser kicked the chair out and away from the table, flipping it over onto its back before Skidmark could take a seat.

Skidmark peeled his cracked lips back, exposing his rack of rotten chompers. Absolutely disgusting.

Guess I have the second nastiest mouth in here now. Small blessings.

“The fuck!?” Skidmark exclaimed.

Kaiser, sounding bored, replied: “You can sit in a booth.”

Skidmark asked if it was because he was black. I hadn’t thought of that. Looking over at Grue, he basically didn’t have any skin exposed with his outfit.

“You can sit in a booth because you and your team are pathetic, deranged losers that aren’t worth talking to. The people at this table? I don’t like them, but I’ll listen to them. That isn’t the case with you.”

Skidmark clapped back: “Fuck you. What about this guy?” He pointed to Grue and said, “I don’t even know his name, and he’s sitting.” He thumbed at me next. “And this fucking thing ain’t even a person!”

Fautline of all people cut in, saying: “His team hit the Brockton Bay Central Bank a week ago. They’ve gone up against Lung several times in the past, and they’re still here, which is better than most. Not even counting the events of a week ago, he knows about the ABB, and he can share that information with the rest of us.”

Kaiser turned his head to address Faultline. “I did wonder, Faultline. Was bringing this thing here your idea, or perhaps one of the children’s pet dogs slipped the leash?”

He turned to me next. “This isn’t a freak show or zoo exhibit.”

Faultline replied: “They’re not on my team, but they are useful. More than I can say for some of the people here.”

Kaiser looked to Grue next. “They’re also not with The Undersiders.”

“They were sitting with you when I arrived. Certainly looked like a stray you took in from my vantage,” Kaiser said.

“Previous statement still stands.” Brian again.

“Well?” Kaiser asked, still looking at me.

I turned my head to face Kaiser. Slow as molasses.

“You strike me as arrogant. Not stupid.”

The room was already pretty quiet, just some low conversations here and there in the booths. It went totally silent after that.

No time like the present. 

“You meet here to discuss war against the ABB, who expand their control and reach by the hour. So what’s more important to you, posture or strategy?”

“So the freak gets to squat at the table and I don’t?” Skidmark’s voice was trembling with anger. “So you’d rather let someone who hangs with Glory Girl sit than an actual gang that holds territory.”“You hold nothing,” Grue said, his voice doing that ghostly echo thing with black smoke spilling out of the skeletal mouth of his helmet. “You’re cowards that hold onto the areas nobody else cares about, making drugs and selling them to children.”

Kaiser held up a hand in Grue’s direction. “What’s this about Glory Girl?”

“We saw that thing with her on our turf! Chilling in a warehouse! Probably fucking!” Skidmark screeched.

“Is that true?” Kaiser asked me.

“I know Glory Girl personally.” I swept my gaze over the occupants of the table. “We were collecting scrap in the trainyard. Had dinner after. PHO had a field day with it.”

My gaze came to Skidmark.“What The Merchants aren’t saying about that encounter is that I challenged them to a fight on their own turf, and they fled, screaming. Skidmark left one in his underwear when he shit himself, and he and Squeeker nearly left Mush behind in their haste to flee.” “You ripped the back end off my truck!” Squealer objected in her high-pitched voice.

The only thing I said in response was: “Oops.”

I gave Coil a look, then swept my gaze back across the table to Kaiser. “Right now, I’m neutral. I’m here because no one has stepped up to deal with the ABB.”

Villains don’t trust each other…

“If you doubt my desire to be here and willingness to participate in a battle against the ABB, then question why not one, but two parties present at this table extended an invite to me.”

Looks were shared between virtually everyone at the table. Let them try to figure out which of their rivals I was working with that they didn’t know about. To not want to say anything to avoid exposing that gap.

“Fuck all of you,” Skidmark sneered, then stomped off like a petulant child to sit with his two groupies in a booth.

The waitress came over and put the chair back up at the table. She went around with her notepad and pen, handing it to people to collect their orders.

“I’ll be taking a chair, I think,” said a newcomer entering the door. He wore a black costume with a tophat and a red mask. A big guy in bulky armor with a square mask, a woman in a sunburst costume, and a giant, hairless ape in matching red-and-black gear: vest, mask, and leggings. Unlike an ape, it had pretty nasty-looking claws on each hand and foot.

Mine are much nastier.

“The Travelers, yes?” Coil asked, speaking for the first time all meeting. “Not from around here.”

“We’re nomadic. What was happening in the Bay was too interesting to pass up, so I decided we’d stop over for a visit.” The man in the tophat gave an elaborate bow, theatrical but smooth. “I’m Trickster.”

“You know the rules here, Trickster?” Grue asked.

“I can guess. No fighting, no powers, no baiting people into fighting, or everyone puts an end to it collectively.”

“Close enough. It’s neutral ground to meet and have a discussion about current issues.” Grue said.

Trickster took a chair like he said he would, leaning back on two legs with his feet up on the table and arms crossed over his chest. The rest of The Travellers took a booth next to The Undersiders. The big gorilla sat on the floor, much like I would.

“This appears to be everyone. Lung obviously not attending,” Coil said.

“Yes, the ABB problem,” Kaiser agreed.

Coil listed the damages, and they were staggering. Over thirty-five were confirmed dead. More than a hundred were hospitalized. Dozens more missing, presumed dead, or worse: taken hostage, implanted with tinker bombs, conscripted. Basically, an ongoing state of armed conflict and gun battles between ABB forces, police, military, and the Protectorate. 

The Protectorate and PRT were mostly on the defensive, holding key high-risk zones: schools, downtown towers, business blocks, and major gathering sites. 

What caught my attention wasn’t just the scale of it, but how casually they talked about losing territory. Coil had said they, meaning the people sitting at this table.

I’d known that Coil, the ABB, and the E88 all held ground around the city in a very typical organized crime sort of way. What caught my attention was how casually they talked about it. They claimed the city block by block, business by business. When they laid claim to your part of town, your house, your job, or whatever, you became subject to the kinds of things you hear and see on television. Taxes, tolls, extortion, and “protection” rackets. It was essentially a big, never-ending turf war between gangs and factions, a war more typically fought in the shadows. 

How visible that war was? Depended on social class, really.

You saw gang tags on lockers and in classrooms in Winslow. Students wearing colors and symbols, their own form of coded language, ever-evolving around shifting attempts at censorship. 

In more upper-class areas, where my family lived, Arcadia, downtown, and the boardwalk, it still happened. The same games, the same wars. Just with nicer clothing, suits. Less “beating you over the head with a baseball bat,” more paperwork and polite threats over lunch meetings.

This wasn’t to say Brockton Bay was lawless. We had the good guys: PRT, Protectorate, and Wards, the police. 

A slightly more cynical version of me would say that they were just another gang. Officially sanctioned. Publicly funded. Wearing more socially acceptable colors, symbols, and uniforms. 

I try not to think like that when I can avoid it. 

Cynicism is a slippery slope.

And I’m not sure there’s a bottom.

I watched and listened attentively, studying the faces and reactions of a half dozen different people simultaneously at any given moment. Say what you will about the way I look, but fuck if having eight different independent eyes wasn’t damn useful most of the time. 

The meeting was coming to its climax. Or maybe just its end.

“So,” Coil spoke as he cracked his knuckles. Cheap theater. “We’re in agreement? The ABB cannot be allowed to continue operating.”

Nods and low voices all around. 

He outlined the terms of the agreement. Truce between all parties present, between each other and military and law enforcement. He was going to handle contacting officials and informing them of the proceedings of this meeting and our declared intent. No land grabs. No new claims. No unnecessary illegal operations until the ABB was dealt with.

Faultline spoke up, firm and businesslike: her team’s support wasn’t guaranteed unless paid. Anyone here could fund their services. Otherwise, they’d remain neutral and entertain offers from the ABB, too, if the price was right.

It didn’t take a Thinker to guess their price wasn’t cheap.

Coil stepped up and offered to fund the buy-in. Said he’d talk with Faultline to go over numbers afterwards.

Faultline turned her gaze to me, intense and focused.

Is she suggesting… But that would make me what, another mercenary? I declared myself a neutral party, and so had she, more or less. Coil didn’t seem to hesitate in snatching up her offer, either to secure her forces or to deny the enemy. Or both.

What do I do? I wasn’t prepared for this.

Before the moment passed, I cleared my throat. “My terms are similar to Faultline’s. I don’t hold territory, and I expect to be compensated for the risk I take.” 

Was that dumb? Did I just say something dumb?

I panned my head around to survey the response. Worst case, they tell me to fuck off. I could lie and say someone else paid my fee, right?

I wasn’t sure if this had turned into a pissing match between Kaiser and Coil, the way they were locked in that silent standoff. But Coil spoke first. 

“Perfectly understandable. We’ll speak after as well.” 

“Everyone agrees with the terms?” Coil again.

“Acceptable.” Kaiser.

“We’re cool with it.” Grue.

“Sure,” said Trickster, with a lazy shrug.

“Anything else? Offers, complaints, grievances?” Coil asked the room.

Apparently, there was one. Hellhound—who insisted on being called Bitch—had been busting up dog-fighting rings organized by E88. Specifically, Hookwolf’s little side enterprise. She’d torn through a couple of sites with her dogs and messed up some of his people..

The room shifted. A few eyes narrowed. Hookwolf made a very thinly veiled threat. Bitch, never one to back down, growled that she’d keep tearing them apart if any more showed up.

The obvious question came up: would that count as a violation of the truce? Would it mean war?

The question of whether or not that would constitute violating the terms and instigate a war between the groups was raised. 

Grue said he wasn’t interested in a war, but every person had their own pet peeves, and that was Bitch’s.

More words, more posturing, more dick-wagging between The Undersiders and the E88.

I was on their side for this one. Dog fighting was disgusting. Torture, basically. Like forcing children into cage matches, for the amusement of sadists. Even the non-lethal fights were a tragedy in their own right.

Kaiser demanded restitution in the form of blood or money. He and Grue came to an agreement that they would settle matters after the issue of the ABB was dealt with.

Kaiser didn’t object; he simply nodded. The kind of nod that meant this isn’t finished.

People started filing out in groups. Merchants were first. The Undersiders are not far behind them. I stuck around with Faultline’s Crew and Coil. Faultline leaned over and whispered something to Gregor, then turned to speak with Coil.

Gregor gave me a subtle wave, beckoning me closer as Faultline and Coil stepped aside to speak in low voices. I padded over, lowering my head to his level.

“Good,” he whispered. “She wanted you nearby. A reason to listen in. Pay attention.”

I nodded.

I did my best to tune in to what Faultline was saying: “...lower than my average rate for a job of this magnitude. Because this is local, and out of respect for the work…” 

The gaggle of E88 members snickered and laughed about something, and I really wanted to just go beat the white straight off them right about now.

“...quarter million for services up to two weeks. Extension will entail renewal…”

If I could’ve shit myself, I probably would’ve right then and there.

A quarter million!? For one job, and that’s less than half price!?

I didn’t think of myself as greedy. But holy fuck, the federal government had us practically working for free compared to what a small merc crew could pull on a single contract. It didn’t change my moral compass, but I suddenly understood the allure of villainy a hell of a lot better.

Oh shit, I’m up. 

Faultline and Coil shook hands, and she turned to face Gregor and me. She gave me another look, pointed and intentional, then signalled her crew to move out.

I stepped forward and took a seat in front of Coil on the floor.

“Well?” He asked.

I have… No idea what to do. I made fifty thousand a year as a Ward… Is that too much? Oh, wait, does he like, mean powers? Maybe I should lead with that. I’m an unknown. Okay, dust off the boasting. Let’s see… How would Apex put this?

Simple. Direct. My body spoke of violence, but I wasn’t just a beast. I had brains, I had tactics.

What had Tattletale said?

“I’m a flying organic tank. I can fight ten people simultaneously, handle high-level brutes solo, and level structures in seconds.” I thought for a moment. “I’m not new to conflict, despite my recent appearance here. I know how to work solo or on teams, follow plans, and think tactically.”

He nodded along, not saying anything as I spoke. The silence expanded for a moment after I’d finished, then he said, “Okay, and? What’s the ask?”

“Fifty thou-” 

I hadn’t finished speaking, and he said, “Deal,” and stuck out a hand. 

I wanted to blink my eyes. I held still instead. Then I extended a lower arm out and shook his hand, being careful not to cut him with my lower arm claws. Razor blades, which were more of a nuisance than anything.

“Do you have a preferred discreet financial services provider?” He asked.

Oh, duh. Think, Morgan.

“Please arrange my payment with Faultline’s. I’m still setting up shop; she can handle it for me.” I lied.

“Sensible,” he said, and I got the impression he was sizing me up. Couldn’t tell with the whole faceless thing we shared in common. Finally, he said, “Is she also a good way to get in contact with you for future offers and arrangements? All voluntary, of course.” 

I have a feeling I’m going to hear that quite often. 

“Yes, for now.” 

I tried to think of something a villain would say at the end of a war council.

“Good hunting, Coil.”

He nodded curtly. “Same, Apex.”

…I didn’t recall giving him my name. 

He’d be one to keep an eye on.

Chapter Text

Leaving the meeting at Somer’s Rock had my mind racing faster than was healthy. I desperately needed to make a phone call, but first I had to get out of the area and clear my head. I took off and headed for the beach by the Boardwalk.

The flight over was soothing. Flying was always good, but flying at night had a special kind of peace to it. Maybe it was the lack of people out and about to spot me from below. Maybe it was the way the cooler air felt against my skin. Either way, I let myself enjoy it, cutting lazy arcs through the sky, diving and swooping, weightless for brief, exhilarating moments.

When I reached the Boardwalk, I touched down on the roof of a parking deck. I found a little nook beneath one of the support beams and tucked my phone and wallet out of sight. Then I climbed back up, took a short hop, and gave a few soft wingbeats. Just enough to lift off without making a scene, and I glided the rest of the way down to the beach.

When I was like this… my real self, no shapeshifting, I felt temperature differently. I still registered hot and cold, but the scale was wider, like someone had stretched the slider out in both directions. Cold floors didn’t bother me. The chill of a late-April night? Pants and jacket weather for most people.

For me, it felt nice. Bracing. Clean. I hadn’t pushed the upper end of my new tolerance much yet, but I’d noticed the difference. A mug of freshly nuked coffee? Barely warm.

This was maybe stupid, but I wanted to try and go for a swim. 

So I did. 

I strolled down the beach, spreading my toes and sinking into the looser sand until I hit the firmer, compacted stuff near the surf. Cold saltwater washed over the pads of my feet and toes. It felt great. Looking around the dark beach and seeing no one, I shrugged and kept wading in.

The water rose steadily with each step. Knees. Thighs. Waist. Chest. Shoulders.

I kept getting lighter, the deeper I went—but not as much as I expected.

I do float… right?

When the waves started slapping against Apex’s face, I felt that familiar buoyancy—but I could still feel the faint pressure of my toes in the sand. Not weightless. Not quite.

I took in a deep breath, as full as I could manage. The soles of my feet felt suction as I went buoyant.

Not exactly.

I felt a subtle prod of my power in my head as I bobbed mostly submerged in the ocean.

Sure… why not?

I opened the floodgates and let the sensation radiate outwards from my chest. It was really pretty minor, nearly imperceptible. Some tingling on my hands, feet, and tail. I brought one big arm up out of the water. I had a fin extending out from the underside of my forearm, and full webs between my fingers. I pulled my tail up next. Pretty much the same thing, stabilizing fins in various spots down the length, and a quite large vertical fin that split my articulated claws at the end into two clean halves.

Turning toward the shore, I leaned back and let the waves take me. The ocean cradled me, my body buoyed just enough, my tail weaving in slow, lazy undulations. It kept my head and chest afloat, just above the waterline.

More importantly, it was relaxing. Deeply, startlingly so.

I let go. Let my mind rest. Let the saltwater hold me up and carry me forward, directionless. I couldn’t see where I was going: the surf blurred my vision, and the rest of my eyes were underwater. But I didn’t need a destination. The tide knew the way. That was enough.

Before we start parsing the day, let’s just be here for a moment. Mindful. Present.

I’ve changed in the past month. More than even I realize, I think. And I’m still changing, moment by moment.

I brought tentacles forward and traced them over the contours of my mask–Apex’s face–like one might trace the backs of their fingers over someone’s face. Gentle. Searching. An exploration of self.

Every day, the dynamic shifts just a little more. 

I remember when I first discovered my face. It was hard. Expressionless. No lips to smile or frown with. Pure black eyes that didn’t move–or at least didn’t look like they did. A face that wasn’t a face at all. A mask. A helmet. Pure utility.

But now? I feel safer with my face-over-face. I felt secure. The lack of expression almost suits me better. And the added level of sensory input? 

Going from eight eyes to two, from tracking multiple things to tracking a single thing. It’s not a compromise, it’s regression.

I’ve always been cocky. I’ve always loved teasing people, poking at their egos just enough to watch them squirm. But now?

Even my ability to fuck with people has evolved.

I do miss being attractive. I miss being wanted, feeling desired. Being misgendered and dehumanized sucks.

But now? My entire body is armor. Knives can’t pierce or cut me. My claws can slice steel. My limbs can pulverize stone without so much as a scuff.

Let them throw their insults. Let them dehumanize me. It just proves their impotence. I can taste their fear.

I was out in the bay a good distance from what I could tell. I rolled over in the water so I could get a look around. The water, like everything else, slid cleanly and effortlessly off my body, leaving no trace behind. 

I’d drifted out closer to the Protectorate rig in the bay. The bubble of the shield gleaming maybe a few hundred feet away. I didn’t want to get any closer. No need to draw attention to myself and potentially cause issues.

I want to try going underwater.

Grabbing a breath of air, I dove underwater headfirst and swam down under the surface. 

I could see moderately well. The bay wasn’t known for having the crystal clear Bahama waters or anything. Everything below was gradients of murk, the background fading from gray to darker gray the deeper I went. It made gauging distances difficult.

Bringing my arms forward for a breaststroke, I paused, caught off guard by their appearance.

They looked alien: long, jointed, with translucent webbing and faint fins that caught the light. Strange and fluid, almost luminous. I turned my head and looked at the rest of me, what little I could see.

A bright, silvery, reflective color, like mercury and chrome, had decided to have a child.

Strange.

I found that while I could give myself a decent thrust with my arms and legs, it was easier, almost instinctive, to stop kicking and let my tail do the work. One long, slow sweep, and I glided forward effortlessly. Another, and I adjusted my course. I was streamlined. Built for this.

I kept going, tail weaving back and forth, drifting deeper. After a minute or two underwater, I felt a slight itch down my back. Right between where my wings attached and my spine. Then, without warning, my chest filled with water.

I panicked.

For a heartbeat, I was certain I’d miscalculated. That I’d just flooded my lungs and was about to drown.

…Except I didn’t feel like I was drowning. The cold water inside me, if anything, felt good. Refreshing. Like something deep in me had been thirsty for it.

I tested it. Mouth closed, I stilled my limbs, and moved my diaphragm.

There it was. A subtle draw-and-release. A motion I hadn’t practiced, but my body already knew.

Water flowed in and out of slits along my back.

I was breathing.

Another part of me I didn’t choose. But it didn’t make it wrong.

What struck me most was that I hadn’t felt my power activate. No familiar prod. No mental click or surge of energy.

Had those openings been there all along?

Had I just… never noticed?

…What else is hiding under the surface, waiting for the right moment to wake up?

I dove down and swam toward the gentle incline of the seabed, gliding just above the sand.

I was so tempted to just put my worries behind me, shut my brain off entirely, drift to the sea floor, and sleep. Maybe I’d try that soon. It sounded quite nice. 

But not tonight. 

The light levels came up as the water grew shallow, and my head breached the surface. I climbed to my feet and walked out of the water. Water was draining out of my chest and streaming down my back, and when it seemingly had drained out, I felt the need to cough a couple of times.

A couple of odd chuffs got any remaining water and crud out, and my back sealed shut again. I took a deep breath of air.

I’d landed pretty much on target. A wide concrete staircase cut into the slope of the beach, bridging the gap between sand and the seawall. Beyond it was a sidewalk, a parking lot, and then the street and the low silhouettes of the Boardwalk’s shops and buildings.

Someone was waiting for me.

This day just keeps getting better and better. I should have just camped out on the seabed. Great. Let’s see what he wants.

I took the steps four at a time. Slow and casual. No need to instigate or escalate things.

Armsmaster stood near his fancy motorcycle in his blue power armor, helmet on, and halberd held in one hand, held vertically with one end resting on the ground. Glancing around without moving my head, I noted he wasn’t alone. Miss Militia and Shadow Stalker were both lurking on nearby rooftops. They were doing a pretty good job of hiding; they weren’t silhouetting themselves, but the glow of their body heat gave up the game.

I came to the top of the staircase and stepped over the sidewalk onto the pavement.

Armsmaster’s hand tensed on his halberd. “That’s close enough.”

I didn’t stop immediately. Instead, I took a slow, deliberate moment to arrange my tentacles, gathering the thicker strands into a loose, tucked ponytail behind my head, letting the rest drape down the sides like curtain bangs made of muscle and instinct.

A gesture of peace. Or control. Or both.

“What’s this all about?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral. The natural bass of my voice carried easily across the quiet street.

“It’s past curfew,” he said, voice cool and clipped.

I tilted my head slightly. We were a dozen feet apart, and I had to angle it down to address him. I slowly, casually crossed my lower arms over my chest and canted my hips slightly to the side. My big arms I left loose and relaxed, hanging down to my calves.

Just a hint of sass. A touch of ‘tude.

“Does it require three heroes to remind me that it’s past my bedtime?” I asked, voice mild. “If this is out of concern for my safety, then I can assure you, I am not particularly concerned about roving bands of ABB. Especially not in this part of the city.”

“I want an explanation as to why you’re flouting curfew, sneaking around the Boardwalk, and swimming around a PRT facility in the middle of the night–during a state of emergency.” His voice was tight.

Are you serious right now?

“Okay. First of all, let’s talk about framing. I’m flouting curfew because the city is scared and tense right now, and it’s easier for me to move about at night and take care of personal business without contributing to the problem.”

I paused for a breath. 

“Secondly, I’m not sneaking around the Boardwalk. I’m trying to be considerate. Trying not to be loud and conspicuous, for the same reason.”

A bit of exasperation snuck into my voice. “And I was just swimming. It’s been a stressful day, and I wanted to try and relax. I can’t exactly go watch a movie or hang out at a bar, now can I?”

His response was brusque. 

“You just happened to swim straight at the most secure facility in the city and then back again. Accidentally. You wouldn’t have happened to be doing recon work? Or planting devices in preparation for something else?”

“You can’t be serious right now. Look.” 

I raised my upper arms into the air slowly, tilted my head up, and held my lower arms out to the side. Then I did a slow spin. I didn’t let any of the three out of my sight while demonstrating.

I resumed my prior stance when I finished, lightly tapping a claw on the bicep of a lower arm in quiet irritation.

“You’ll note the lack of saboteur packs. Or for that matter, anything on my person. I was literally just going for a swim to relax, and between not paying attention to where I was going and the currents, I wound up near the oil rig.”

“Tinker devices could have been hidden, camoufla-”

I interrupted him. 

“Tinker devices from who?! Uber? Leet? Those two idiots barely qualify as background noise. You or Kid Win? For what reason, so you can spy on… yourself?” 

I took a breath, my voice just a hair sharper.

“I don’t understand this paranoia—this overreaction to something so basic and easily explainable, which I’ve already done. Does Occam’s Razor just not apply here?”

One hand still firmly planted on his halberd, he raised his other to point an accusatory finger. 

“We are aware of your activities today. That you’re making house calls in villain dens like that’s just a normal activity.” 

His jaw clenched. 

“That you attended an exclusive meeting of the worst scum in this city—and weren’t attacked. Or thrown out. That you’ve agreed to work directly with them. Hand in hand. A truce among villains.”

The finger swung away from me, aiming toward the Protectorate rig behind him.

“And then, immediately after leaving that meeting, you come here. Straight to the rig.”

Oh fuck. Someone ratted.

I didn’t move. Kept my body loose. Still. I brought my lower arms up, palms open in what I hoped was a placating gesture.

“Whoah, whoah, hang on. I consider myself neutral here. I attended that meeting out of a desire to help the cit-”

“I don’t care what you consider yourself!” Armsmaster snapped. “What you think and feel is irrelevant.”

His voice rose, taut and furious.

“If you wanted to help, you would’ve come to us. You don’t flirt with filth.”

His pointing hand dropped. He took his halberd in both hands and brought it up across his chest. Not aimed at me.

Not yet.

I still didn’t move.

There was whispering—low and tight—from the other two on the rooftop. Coordination. Miss Militia and Shadow Stalker. I couldn’t make out the words, but I caught the vibration in my bones. My hands were still raised. Well, up and down.

There was a flicker of nervousness in my voice.

“Let’s—Let’s not get hasty here. We can talk. We can sort this out.”

Armsmaster didn’t waver. His voice was grim. Cold.

“You’re coming with us. Surrender.”

Oh. Fuck me.

I knew this play cold. This wasn’t a conversation. It wasn’t a warning.

This was an arrest. Containment.

I raised my voice so the others would hear me clearly. I didn’t care how it sounded.

“Please. Please. I’m begging you–don’t do this. There are more important things at stake. I am not a villain! ”

Armsmaster flicked his thumb along the shaft of his halberd. I heard a faint hum as the weapon powered on, and with a nearly silent whir of servos, he moved.

It was a half-swing, half-thrust, fast and deliberate. Not a full attack. A test. A threat.

I did not want to fight them. To do so would only make things worse.

He was fast. The kind of fast that came from hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours fighting with that weapon. Perfect muscle memory, fine-tuned and amplified by his armor.

But I was faster.

One of my lower arms snapped up and caught the halberd just beneath the multi-function head, inches from my chest plate.

“I’m not fighting you! Stop!” I shouted.

My grip was solid. Unyielding. He might as well have cast the weapon’s head in a block of iron.

I felt him test the tension. His fingers shifted. He pressed another button—or a sequence—and with a mechanical snap, barbed prongs shot out from the end of the shaft. They struck my upper right breastplate with ballistic force.

The metal rang like a bell. No penetration.

A split second later, a rapid staccato crackle filled the air. Electricity surged from the point of contact, arcing across my armor, skipping over my skin. The sharp, metallic scent of ozone flooded the street.

I didn’t feel a thing.

I opened my jaw slightly and bared my teeth. Then I yanked on the weapon.

He had a choice: let it go, or come with it.

He chose the former.

In a seamless motion, I compressed my legs, dropping a foot of elevation, and launched myself backward and over the edge of the seawall.

My wings snapped open with a crack that echoed off the buildings. I thrust hard, harder than I ever had. The downforce of my wings hit the beach like a bomb. Sand exploded in every direction as I shot upward on the first few beats.

“I am not your enemy!” I shouted down at them.

Armsmaster raised his hands, shielding his exposed lower face from the blast of sand. In my grip, the halberd buzzed violently. Arcs of electricity lashing off it, crawling over the skin of my arm.

I aimed it like a javelin and threw it.

The weapon struck the pavement headfirst, a few feet in front of his motorcycle. It embedded deep, the shaft vibrating like a tuning fork.

I stopped caring about being considerate. Or quiet. Or civil.

I flew full-power across to the parking deck and slammed down on the rooftop, claws gouging deep into the concrete.

My tail coiled down, found the nook where I’d hidden my phone and wallet, and pulled them free.

Another thunderous beat of my wings shook the air. Then I was gone.

I was pissed.

I passed my phone up to my tentacles, unlocked it, and fired off a quick text to Faultline.

Me: Coming over. ETA 2–3 minutes.

Chapter Text

I tore through the night sky over the city, wings operating at full blast as I followed a steep parabolic arc. 

I was way up. Thousands of feet, easily.

I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t.

So I screamed instead—an unbridled, full-bodied roar hurled at the heavens.

I was furious. This was all so stupid.

There had been a rat in the meeting. No. Probably several. Scheming, petty little fucks, trading intel for cash, and fucking over everyone else. After all, everyone was everyone else’s enemy in the meeting, everybody outside their team.

And maybe even within some of those teams, too.

All I wanted to do was relax. Just breathe for a minute. Put some distance between me and the endless, tangled mess of the past twenty-four hours.

But I’d been caught off guard. Clueless.

No idea what was happening until it was already too late.

People I felt close to had been there, waiting. Ready to arrest me. Throw me in a Brute containment tank.

The thought terrified me. 

I’m claustrophobic. 

If I started having a panic attack, I’d probably trigger the automated response systems.

The thought of being trapped in a cell filled floor to ceiling with containment foam? 

That’s nightmare fuel. My nightmare.

And the worst part of all of this?

Nobody had done anything wrong. 

Armsmaster might’ve been a bit overzealous, sure, striking first to try and disable me, but they’d been there to arrest me.

And while the justification was so fucking stupid…

It was also perfectly reasonable.

Understandable, even.

I knew from the start I was playing with fire. That it could backfire spectacularly.

And it did.

Nobody to blame but myself. Again.

My inertia finally gave out. I angled my still wings, catching the air as I began to spin. Slow, deliberate rolls through the open sky.

I crested the arc and began my downward plummet. Streaking downwards towards the city, towards The Palanquin. Like a ballistic missile.

With my wings tucked tightly, I embraced the dive. Pure freefall, silent and steep. 

Maybe halfway down, I unfurled them again, shifting into a controlled descent. I rotated and angled the membranes, guiding myself into a wide downward spiral.

Bleeding off speed like this was both exhilarating and brutal. Even with a massive turning radius, I was heavy, and my wings weren’t meant for fixed-wing flight. Not really.

The strain was intense. My wings curled under the load, and my flight muscles burned, trying to hold position instead of flapping.

The G-forces, the rush, the control? It was worth it.

My plummet slowed dramatically as I slipped into the airspace above the city.

Silent. Smooth. Almost graceful.

It was late Saturday night. 

The club’s security was out in force. Tight perimeter, visible presence. Even so, crowded lines were waiting outside the Palanquin. The sheer oppressiveness of the security seemed to comfort people, weirdly enough. Permitted them to come out.

The thump of bass was audible even from up here.

Curfew or not, it was packed.

Maybe because of the state of emergency.

People were strung out. Stretched thin.

They needed release. A break.

An illusion of safety.

I needed that too.

The street in front of the club was clear of cars. Everyone had come on foot. I didn’t want to blast Faultline’s patrons with a full-throttle touchdown, so I opted for something more traditional.
The street would be my runway.

The buildings on either side were three stories tall. I tucked my wings in tight to avoid clipping anything and rotated them for maximum lift and drag.

I came in low and hit the ground feet-first—my upper hands planting beside them, claws retracted, fingers curled back to avoid catching.

I skidded down the street with a sharp hiss.

My skin was slick—too slick. Great for not getting rugburn.

Terrible for traction.

I flared my wings, angling them forward for resistance.

Thrust hard in reverse.

Still overshot.

Came to a halt farther down the street than I meant to.

I spun around, feeling sheepish, though hopefully not showing it, and approached the front doors at the same “human walking pace” I’d used earlier with the Undersiders.

I wasn’t walking on all fours. I was gliding.

There’d been some elevated voices, and a spike of alarm as I dropped from the sky, but no one in line had dared move. Not when it meant losing their spot. Still, all eyes were on me. Conversations faded to murmurs beneath the throb of bass bleeding from the club’s interior.

I moved slowly. Lazily.

No sudden motions, nothing aggressive. Just smooth, effortless forward motion.

But like everything Apex… appearances were deceiving.

I was probably going three or four miles per hour. Maybe more.

I reached the velvet cord and the massive front doors.

Two living walls in suits flanked the entrance—burly, manicured, and polished. One of them spoke into his earpiece. A beat later, the ropes were unhooked, and the doors opened.

I stepped inside for the second time today.

This time, into the full swing of things.

It was a lot.

Flashing lights, lasers, and strobes clashing against the ambient dark. Hundreds of people packed wall to wall. Dancing, drinking, shouting, grinding, making out. The air shimmered with heat and energy.

It tugged at me.

At the part of me that tracked motion.

That hunted.

The music was pounding. Heavy, layered bass that hit like a second heartbeat. I didn’t recognize the song, but it was my kind of music.

Somehow, my brain was handling the onslaught.

The lights, the sound: they hurt at first. A sensory slap to the face. But even that faded fast.

I was adapting.

The crowd parted around me as I moved, but it was packed, and my presence disrupted the quiet, instinctive flow of bodies that governed a space like this. People gave me space… but less than I’d expected.

I was dimly aware—no, acutely aware—of every single person around me. Their exact positions. Their movements. Their angles and proximity. All of it tracked in real-time.

Someone bumped into my hip. Another brushed against my leg. I could’ve moved, shifted, flowed out of the way, but doing so would’ve meant drifting toward someone else. Breaking someone else’s rhythm.

So I let them bounce off me.

I didn’t even twitch.

I’d waded into the middle of the dance floor. Surrounded by bodies bouncing, swaying, and losing themselves in the beat. The lights. The moment.

I felt it too. My head bobbed. Shoulders swayed. A low, easy rhythm. No choreography, just being.

A raven-haired woman with an enticing figure danced directly in front of me. Tiny halter top. Even smaller skirt. Hips rocking and rolling. She moved like she meant it.

I danced back. Swaying, winding, mirroring her motions. My tentacles curled and gestured in time with the music, tracing slow spirals through the air.

I wanted to project playfulness. Not creepy-ass alien thing.

So I cracked my jaw open a little and let my tongue loll out. Goofy, loose, like a dog on a hot day.

She smiled. Laughed. I couldn’t hear the sound over the beat, but I felt it. It was real.

We danced some more. I was still from the waist down—rooted, unmoving. Someone, drunk or on a dare, took a seat on my tail like it was a tree branch. Or a whole damn trunk.

And no one screamed. No one ran. They just… danced.

And so did I.

My dance partner moved in closer, brushing the edge of contact.

“You’re weird,” she said—still swaying, still in rhythm.

She reached out, hesitant, fingertips grazing my face. I felt it, despite the rock-hard surface. Despite the armor. Her hand pulled back. Then, with a breathless laugh, she touched me again.

I noticed that her pupils were huge, like saucers.

“I kind of like it!” she said.

I saw a motion directed at me from a balcony above.

“You’re cute, but I am here for business. Have fun, huh?”

Newter was waving down at me from above.

I lowered my tail so my surprise passenger could get the hint. They stood up.

I moved slowly. Deliberately. Every motion telegraphed. I didn’t want to spook anyone.

I positioned myself beneath the balcony, then slowly rose, lifting until my eyes were nearly level with his.

The private lounge up here was a velvet-drenched oasis. Newter lounged comfortably in one of several low, expensive-looking chairs. He was surrounded by half a dozen girls, all attractive, all looking either blitzed out or blissed out. Maybe both.

He was sipping from a glass bottle of cola.

Is he underage like me? 

“Sup! Wasn’t expecting to see you here!”

“Yeah. Some shit happened after we left the thing. It was… pretty bad, being real. Need to talk to the boss and well, probably just chill.” I looked down and over my shoulder at the dance floor, then back to Newter. 

“You guys really have a good thing going here, don’t you?” I asked.

He nodded rapidly, smiling some, but answering seriously: “Yeah. We do. You wanna talk, hang some?”

I looked over at the girls. “What about them?”

He laughed. “My body fluids are potent drugs. My whole body, really. Even touching my skin. You know, like a rainforest frog!” 

He thumbed over his shoulder at the girls. “I get to have some company who doesn’t care about the way I look for a bit, they get a harmless trip to la-la land. Pretty good arrangement. They’re all out, though!”

I tilted my head.

Body fluids…?

He held his palms up, seemingly reading my mind. “No, nothing weird, man! I usually dip the tip of my tongue into a spoon with a drink or some water in it, they take it, and off they go.”

I nodded slowly. “Sure, uh, we can do that. After my talk. Not sure how long that will take.”

“I’m not going anywhere!”

With that, I slid back down into a quadruped stance and made my way towards the back. I was directed by the staff back to the same room I’d been in earlier.

I opened the door with my tail and entered. 

Faultline was seated in an armchair, relaxed, phone in hand, thumbs moving quickly as she texted. She didn’t look up as I approached and sat down, so I didn’t interrupt.

A moment later, she finished whatever she was doing. The screen blinked off.

The room was well-insulated. Quiet, almost serene, compared to the storm of sound outside.

She looked up at me. “When I said a place to stay, I didn’t mean immediately.” A rare smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. I sighed, and she raised a brow.

“So,” I began, “I left the meeting at the pub right after you and your crew. Wanted to settle my nerves. I stashed my phone and wallet on a parking deck by the Boardwalk and went for a swim in the bay.”

“Bit cold, isn’t it?” She asked.

“I thought that might be the case, but I wasn’t sure. No, it felt amazing to me. I swam out and just zoned out. Found out I don’t float, and I can breathe seawater. Hung out under the ocean for a little bit and tried to clear my head. It’s–I wish you could experience it. It’s so relaxing.” 

I’m rambling. 

“Sorry,” I apologized.

She waved a hand. “You seem stressed. Doesn’t bother me at all. Go on.”

I clenched my jaw, and my tail rustled restlessly across the expensive-looking carpet.

“I came out and wouldn’t you know it, I had a whole welcoming committee waiting for me.”

She crossed one leg over the other, letting a steel-toed boot hang. “Who?”

“Armsmaster, Miss Militia, Shadow Stalker.”

I exhaled through my teeth. 

“He was out front and center, waiting for me. The other two were posted on rooftops nearby. Watching.”

She nodded along and bobbed the toe of her boot.

“He starts grilling my ass with question after question. Why was I by the Rig? Why was I out past curfew? What is my astrological sign?” 

I took a breath. “Eventually I just… got fed up with the shit and asked what this was really all about.”

She was silent as I looked away and took a moment to compose myself.

I didn’t turn back when I resumed speaking. “I’m just a supervillain now. Hanging out with filth and scum and loathsome individuals.” Irony dripped from my voice, then something sharper. 

“They were arresting me. Right there, on the spot. I told them I wasn’t going, that I wasn’t their enemy. That I wasn’t going to fight them.”

I swallowed.

“Then he attacked me. Tried to surprise me. Subdue me in one move.”

Her boot stopped moving.

“He fucking—”

I caught myself. Took a breath. Tried to calm down. Just a little.

“Before he even tried to arrest me, he accused me of doing recon. Of scouting the Rig in advance of an attack. Of planting explosives, sabotaging the place.”

I stared at the wall.

“Me.”

I shook my head, voice rising.

“Me!?”

I’d fought for that place. Bled for that place. Nearly fucking died. I’m like this now, directly as a result of working there. And they want to accuse me of flipping and trying to blow it up on some paranoia-fueled power trip!?

“So what did you do?” Faultline asked, her voice quiet, but her gaze sharp.

“He swung that stupid tinker stick at me. I caught it. Locked it in a vice grip.”

I shook my head, jaw tight.

“Of course, it’s packed with a million gadgets, so he tried to electrocute me while I was holding it in place. Didn’t work.”

I looked up, met her eyes.

“So I ripped it out of his hands, took off, shouted for them to knock their shit off—then threw it like a javelin. Stuck it in the pavement by his dickhead-cycle.”

I exhaled, long and slow.

I nodded. “Yes. I—”

I clenched one of my lower fists.

“Fuck!” The word came out sharp, bitter. “Sorry. I just… I can’t get how everything can go to shit in under an hour. Sorry. I’m just…”

I shook my head, angry and overwhelmed.

“I’m hot about all of it. And arrested! Just like that! I haven’t even done anything!”

I rose onto all fours, started pacing the room, heavy limbs moving with barely-restrained frustration. I needed to move. I needed anything to burn off the nervous energy boiling under my skin.

Then it hit me.

Realization.

I stopped. Looked over at her.

“And you told me.”

I paused, heart pounding.

“I listened. I did. But it doesn’t really sink in until it’s you in the crosshairs.”

The anger started to fade with the realization, leaving something bitter in its place. Acidic. Hollow.

Faultline, for her part, didn’t rub salt in the wound, at least. She took a deep breath in through her nose and exhaled. The corners of her mouth curled upwards, but the set of her eyes spoke of something between empathy and pity. 

“As I said this afternoon,” she murmured, “an all-too-common tale. Welcome to the club.”

I looked down at the floor, my voice soft. “Just like that, huh?”

“Just like that,” she said, nodding.

I sank onto my haunches and lowered myself to my elbows. The fire was gone. The wind in my sails had vanished. My posture mirrored the hollow space inside me.

“Fuck…”

There was a pause. Then, gently: “It’s not so bad, Apex.”

“I am unable to see any silver linings in my current position,” I said flatly, “with my hopes and dreams broken and tossed into the trash.”

“Two things,” Faultline replied, still in that gentle tone. 

“Firstly, this was always going to happen. Sooner or later. It’s actually fortunate for you that it happened sooner. They turned out in force, yeah, but only because of the current state of emergency. If we weren’t in lockdown, they’d have dropped the full team on you. You’d almost certainly be in containment right now.”

I grunted.

“Secondly, and I am being brutally honest with you here–” 

I braced. 

“You made an incredible showing tonight at Somer’s Rock. There’s a lot of chatter happening behind the scenes. I’d call it nearly flawless execution. You stood your ground with arguably the strongest villain in the city, and then cut deals with the second-strongest. That takes either giant balls or suicidal idiocy—and you proved it was the former.”

She paused, and I glanced up at her.

“You earned a lot of credibility tonight, Apex. Just by keeping your cool. By talking. By not flexing until you had to.”

Her voice shifted slightly, back to practical.

“Now, don’t get me wrong. You will be challenged. It’ll get ugly. Favor-seekers in the E88 now have a very direct reason to want you humbled. You publicly humiliated the Merchants. And anyone paying close attention will have clocked the early signs of ties between you, me, Coil, and the Undersiders.”

She didn’t need to say it: we all had enemies.

I thought for a second, then asked, “You said nearly flawless. Where did I go wrong?”

She grinned. Broadly, this time, genuine.

“You could’ve easily gotten double your ask from Coil,” she said. “And he wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. Or eyelid. Whatever he’s got under there.”

I blinked. Then groaned.

“That is… insane. How can anyone have that kind of money to just casually throw around?”

“He’s worth a couple hundred million, last I checked. Maybe more. The difference between hiring you for fifty thousand and hiring you for a hundred?” She shrugged. “It’s like choosing between the upscale coffee and the fancy upscale coffee. One’s slightly more bitter. That’s it. As for throwing it around? It's an investment, not an expenditure. You can be certain he's profiting off our work more than it is costing him, maybe even in the short-term. But he's a long-game player.”

This world. This life. It was as alien to me as I was to the average person on the street.

I was hopelessly out of my league, in over my head, clueless. And yet… somehow earning praise for doing nothing more than sitting at a table and talking.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I muttered. Just a simple statement of fact.

She smiled with her eyes. “I know. And it’s why I’m taking the time to help you.”

I sat on that. I was still musing. 

I had a question, a tricky one. Prickly. But I didn’t see any point in dancing around it.

Faultline didn’t seem like the kind of person who liked people dancing around things.

“Can I trust you?”

She shifted in her seat, slow and deliberate. Her foot kept bobbing, steady and unbothered. She folded her hands beneath her chin, elbows resting on the armrests. Watching.

She studied me. I studied her right back.

A moment stretched out like this, the only sound the muted thumping of a dance track.

“Complicated question,” she said at last, “and a complicated answer.” 

She wet her lips. 

“The answer is both yes and no at the same time. Yes, because my ulterior motives exist on a different level than yours, and they’re unlikely to intersect. No, because trusting anyone without reason or leverage is foolish.”

She rested her back against the chair, her gaze level. 

“I can help you, and I will help you.”

“Why?” I asked.

“You’re a valuable resource, Apex. Some have already realized that. Others soon will. It benefits me to foster a good relationship with you, and it costs me very little. Some time and effort.” 

She paused.

“I will tell you, Coil is likely thinking along similar lines. Hiring you was as much of a gesture as it was a transaction.”

I would be frowning when asking: “Why is everything you say framed like it’s a deal? Like it’s all transactional?” 

Her brows knit slightly. The faintest furrow of seriousness.

“Because everything in life is transactional, Apex. And the sooner you come to terms with that, the sooner you can begin to contextualize your role. Your place. And how to shape it.”

“I don’t want to think of the world like that. All dollar signs and faction tokens. I empathize and connect with people. I don’t want to commodify my friends and family.”

She gave a small, slow nod. Not dismissive, but like a teacher waiting for the student to reach the next step.

“And don’t you see?” she said quietly. “That’s the same lesson you were already stung by earlier tonight.”

She let the words settle.

“What you think should happen, what you want to believe about people, and what actually happens, are rarely the same thing.”

It stung to hear. I wasn’t sure if it was her words or the message underneath.

I wasn’t sure what to say. I needed to think on it. Digest some.

I changed topics. “I asked Coil to send you the money for the job. He mentioned a discreet bank account, and… I realized that all I have is my uh, you know, normal bank account. With my name on it. Probably not the smartest idea.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s been handled already. We’ll take care of business tomorrow. That, and several other things.”

She paused, then added, “Do you want to stay here overnight? It’ll let us get an early start, if you have the time.”

That was very considerate of her. I honestly didn’t want to go back out and risk another confrontation with the PRT at the moment.

Do they know where I live? Will they be waiting for me there?

“Yes, thank you. I won’t inconvenience you, I’ll just sleep on the floor by the loading dock.”

That got a reaction out of her. Her brows climbed high. 

“You want to sleep on bare concrete?”

I sighed. “It’s basically what I sleep on at home. My hard parts…” I raised one big hand and clacked my hard forearm against a chest plate for emphasis. “...they support my body well enough. It’s not uncomfortable.” 

I added, softer, “…I do miss sleeping on my back.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, thoughtful. “I can see how your size and mass would pose challenges.”

“It's almost a disability,” I admitted. “If I’m being honest. I can’t go where I want or do what I want without damaging things. Or getting stuck.”

She nodded. No pity, just acknowledgment.

“Well,” she said, “enjoy the rest of your evening if you’d like. Food and drink are on the house. Don’t worry about portions.”

She gave me a look: half practical, half amused.

“I’ll meet with you tomorrow morning. We’ve got a lot to cover, and you’ve got a lot to learn. Expect to spend a decent chunk of the day here, if you can manage it.”

I desperately needed the lessons. The guidance. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.

“You’ll have all the time you can spare. I know I need it.”

At that, she nodded firmly. She made no move to get up; she just pulled out her phone once again and started texting. 

I saw myself out.

I headed back out, this time to the bar. Ordered a pitcher of iced tea. While I stood there, I let my eyes roam.

The people looked happy. Intoxicated, perhaps in more ways than one, but happy all the same. Having a place like this, here and now? It was probably the best remedy people could get their hands on, given the chaos in the city.

My pitcher arrived. I pulled out my wallet and tipped the bartender ten bucks, then stuffed it back in my hair. People seemed to get a kick out of that. 

Oh yeah? Feast your eyes on this.

I grabbed the pitcher securely in two tentacles and lifted it. I brought my head vertical, opened my mouth wide, where hopefully nobody could see it, and poured the pitcher in. 

Half in one go, a big gulp, and then the other half.

Refreshing…

I brought my head back down and put the pitcher back on the bar with a satisfying clunk. 

Some people were laughing. Some were pointing and staring. Others were gossiping.

I sat off to the side of the dance floor and enjoyed the music for a few tracks. I turned my brain off and just watched people. Lost myself in the chaos of it all.

After, I headed for the stairs up to Newter's balcony. I very, very carefully tested them. No cracks, crunches, or groans that I could hear. No fractures I could see. I glided my way up them at a snail’s pace and made my way to the balcony. 

I had checked before coming up; it was supported by robust I-beams. I didn’t think I had anything to worry about, provided I didn’t get into any horseplay.

Newter was there, chatting with a girl about something. The number of other girls present in altered states had dropped by half. He saw me, gave me an upnod, then went back to chatting. I sat and waited. I was content to do more of the same that I’d done before coming up. 

Five or ten minutes might have passed, then he fished out a water bottle and a plastic spoon. Pouring a splash of water into the spoon, he held it still, then dipped a serpentine tongue into the end. He handed the spoon to the girl, who took it with practiced anticipation. I got the impression this wasn’t her first visit.

She downed it without hesitation. Set the spoon on the table.

And within seconds…

She was gone.

Somewhere else entirely.

Newter grinned, dusted his hands off, and stood up before dropping to all fours and coming over to me. “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he called over to me.

“Okay,” I said, hesitating a moment. “I gotta stick to like, ground floor or basement levels if you have them.”

He canted his head to one side. “Why? Your power?”

Dryly, I said, “No, I’m just really fat. Break the floor fat.”

“Bullshit!” He cackled.

I shook my head, which got me a look, then a shrug. “No biggie! Let’s head out back, it’s pretty quiet.”

I followed him down and around like we were heading toward the loading dock, but he veered off instead. Knocked a set of fire doors off their magnetic retainers, letting them swing shut behind us. Three layers deep and a couple turns later, we emerged into a quieter corridor.

Eventually, we reached a storage space: spacious enough for me to stretch out or move a little if I wanted. I sat down.

He goofed off a little while we hung out. Turns out he can literally hang out. Like from walls, racks, and ceilings. Like a gecko or frog or something. Just his bare feet and hands planted on the surface, and he stuck to it securely.

We chatted. 

“That sucks, man,” he said. “The PRT doesn’t give us too much trouble, but we also go out of our way not to get on their radar, and vice versa. I wouldn’t say they’re fans, but there’s some kind of arrangement or something.”

“Do you like doing what you do? I mean, you seem to have a good thing here, but that doesn’t mean that this isn’t a lull in the chaos.”

“Oh. Dude. I love doing this. Way better than anything else I’ve done, I get to have like a tiny slice of a social life here, the gang’s great, and we have done some wicked jobs.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

His eyes sparkled, and he grinned. “Not saying I’m a huge deal or anything, but we did fight Chevalier and Myrddin at the same time.”

I drew my head back. “No way. You’re shitting me.”

“Nope!” He said, popping the P.

Chevalier and Myrddin. A stab of guilt hit me in the chest.

I looked down at the floor and said quietly, “My sister plays them in our fighting game. Miss her, right now.”

“Oh, you got a sister? Is she hot?” I looked up at him, catching the absolute shit-eating grin on his face.

I reached out a tentacle to swat him, and he ducked with a laugh.

“Yeah, my twin. And yes, she is hot. Hotter than me.” I was only a touch rueful in my response.

Newter blinked his eyes like his brain was suddenly misfiring.

“You’re a chick!? And hot!?” 

I suspected he was about my age, maybe a little younger. And that my guess about his brain misfiring probably wasn’t far off the truth. 

Teenage boy hormones, I thought. Predictable. 

“Yeah.” I let it just sit there. Filling the space in the room.

“Wait- so. Wait.” Newter was cocking his head back and forth, hair flopping wildly. “I have so many questions.”

“Well, shoot.”

“You and your sister: same power?” 

Oh.

“Oh! No. We’re fraternal, but we look very similar. Might as well be identical,” I answered.

He bobbed his head, going: “Mhm, mhm. So, what, this is like a Breaker form for you?”

Breakers: people who could shift into some altered state. Usually more powerful. Living fire, shadow clones, bodies made of energy or metal. Often still themselves outside of that form.

I flexed my jaw a little and shook my head. 

“No, if anything, it’s sort of the other way around. I’m a… Changer. This is me-me, at least now it is. I can shift back into a more human state for a while, do normal stuff… but after a few hours, I have to return to this.”

He stared.

“Dude! …Dudette?”

I wanted to roll my eyes so hard right now. “I’m really not that picky, honestly.”

“Right. Dude! That’s huge. Even if it’s backward like you’re saying, the fact you can do that at all is amazing!” 

His voice softened. “You know what I’d give to be able to touch other people without having to have on latex gloves or waterproof clothing?” 

He leaned back in, curiosity flaring back up. “You ever tried changing into anything else?”

He was all excited, rattling off ideas as they crossed his head.

“I- no?” I tilted my head. 

Could I? Something… or someone else?

“You haven’t even tried!?” His voice was strained.

“No!” I exclaimed, a little defensively.

“You totally gotta! Do me! Do me!” 

He dropped from the wall, landing on all fours, and crawled over to sit right in front of me.

“I don’t want to use my power right now…” I protested weakly.

“C’mon! Just for a minute. Try it.” 

I grumbled. “Fine.” 

I stared at him. Tried to picture myself as him. My power stirred, then answered. I let it flow.

Newter’s jaw proceeded to drop, bit by bit, as I shrank, shifted, and orangified.

The change finished, and he had craned in so far that we were practically nose-to-nose.

“Bro. That is. AWESOME!” he shouted.

I laughed—loudly—and mimicked his posture, mirroring his grin with only a slight delay.

“Yeah, bro! I’m so fucking cool! I get people high and walk on walls!” I parroted him in his exact voice.

He doubled over, clutching his side with one hand and slapping his jeans with the other.

“Fuck!”

I snickered and looked down at myself. Chest tattoo, clawed hands, splayed toes…

Wha-

“AHH!” I shrieked and clapped my hands over my groin. Two hands that were full of things. “AHH! WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Nope. Nope nopenopenope!

I released my hold and started shifting back pretty quickly. A little uncomfortable, a little crunchy and gross, but I did not want to experience what I had been experiencing.

Newter was howling, keeled over on his side, cackling and wheezing.

I was back to myself, thank god.

He was crying and looked like he was about to pass out.

“...screeched like a girl, hahaha!”

“I am a girl! And I didn’t want my hands full of penis! Attached to me!”

“Hoo–hoo, I gotta… oh god. Ow. Cramp. Ah!”

I sat cross-legged, lower arms folded over my chest, while he flailed his way through a full-body laugh collapse.

He wiped tears from his eyes and carefully dabbed the ones that hit the floor like he was cleaning up precious evidence.

“Apex…” He took a shaky breath. “Sorry. I didn’t know that was going to happen, and I wasn’t laughing about that… too much."

“Dude. You’re awesome. You know that, right?”

I looked off to the side.

His bare-faced sincerity cut right through my annoyance, and would’ve gotten a hell of a blush out of me if I were still capable of it.

Grudgingly, I muttered, “I didn’t know I could do that.”

Then, quieter—

“And… it was kinda cool.”

I changed the subject. “So you can’t touch anyone?” He shook his head.

“What happens if you were to touch me?”

He wiped his palms on his jeans and sat up a bit straighter, a touch more serious than before. “You’d get really high and pass out. Or go into a stupor for a little while.”

“It’s not poisonous?” I asked.

“Nah. Can’t overdose anyone, either. And it’s not addictive. Basically, the perfect knockout drug. And in tiny doses, like with my guests on the balcony, they have a great time for a bit, then come to. Guess they feel amazing after. Rested and sober.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I can’t get high off my own supply.”

I thought for a moment. “Touch me.”

He looked back up at me. “You want to get high right now? I mean, I don’t care if you do.”

“I… don’t think it will work on me. Its body fluids, right?”

“Wait, really? Why’s that?” he asked.

“My skin is armor and pretty strange in a lot of ways. Most ways. Nothing sticks to me or absorbs. I’m like… Waterproof, like a duck? But for everything. Everything I’ve been able to find and test, at least.”

He chewed his lower lip a moment, then said: “Sure. Lay down first, though. That way, if you do go out, you’re not going to crash over or break anything.”

I nodded. That made sense. I lay down like I would for sleeping. Stretched out on my belly, my thorax, thigh, feet, and forearm plates cradling me. I tucked my tail up along one side.

Newter stepped over it and brought a hand close to my lower left shoulder. 

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” I replied.

He tapped me on the shoulder, then waited. Fifteen seconds passed.

“Anything?” I shook my head.

He tried again. Waited. Then he tried touching a tentacle. Waited. A few other spots. Nothing at all.

I asked him, quietly: “Do you want to… lie on me? I know… It’s not the same as being able to go out and do things like normal, but… It’s something, right?”

My head wasn’t facing him, but I could still see him. His jaw clenching, clawed fingers twitching. He didn’t say anything, then nodded quickly. Like he was afraid he might change his mind.

“Hold still.” 

Another nod. 

I looped tentacles around his limbs and laid him on his back in the valley between my bulging muscles where my wings anchored. 

I curled up some tentacles beneath his head, forming a cradle. 

He settled in.

Riding on my back like he was floating at sea, his small frame rising and falling with each slow breath I took.

My body was vast and still. But my breathing? That was the tide.

I remained silent. So did he.

This was nice. I was enjoying it, and I think he was too. 

A thought occurred to me, though. This was… pretty intimate. I didn’t want to send the wrong message.

As quietly as I could, I said: “Newter?”

“Mhm?”

“I–um. Just so you know, I’m… queer. It sorta came to me after that–”

He shook his head. “Dude. S’cool. I didn’t take it like that.”

Then, softer, “This is… a hell of a gift. Bro to bro. Thank you.”

I nodded just enough to slightly jostle him.

I was bone-weary. Exhausted from exercise I wasn’t used to, the late hour, the incredible mental toll of the day’s events. 

I drifted off. Didn’t even realize it had happened until I was already gone.

Chapter Text

I slept like a rock. Dreamed of swimming in the ocean. Deep, dark, quiet. Nothing but the water and me. I’d never set an alarm or anything on my phone before nodding off.

I slowly came out of the dregs of sleep to the world of the living.

Three things registered in my waking mind.

Newter was not on my back.

Gregor was leaning with his back against a wall a few feet away and watching me closely.

Someone was sitting on my bicep and petting my… hair.

She looked young. Maybe late teens, maybe early twenties. Hard to pin down.

She dressed young. Pajama top and bottoms. Fuzzy pink bunny slippers. Platinum blonde hair so pale it was almost white.

Her eyes were a soft, striking green. But she wasn’t looking at me. Or at anything in particular. Just… off into the middle distance.

Her fingers moved gently through the mass of hair and tendrils at the side of my head, deliberate but absentminded.

Blind, maybe?

“Good morning, Apex,” Gregor said.

“Mm. Morning. What time is it?”

I could’ve fished my phone out of my hair and checked, but I didn’t want to startle the strange woman who was still… petting me.

Which, for the record, felt quite nice.

“Just before eight. This is Labyrinth. She went missing for her morning responsibilities, and so I went looking and found her here, with you.”

I glanced at her, and she seemingly wasn’t responding to the conversation.

“I um. Sorry if this is awkward, I promise I won’t tell anyone what she looks like.”

Gregor smiled, but it seemed more sad than anything.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “But it’s not a great concern. She doesn’t really have a civilian life. Not anymore.”

He looked at her—not with pity, but something older. Wearier.

“We take care of her most days. Make sure she’s dressed, fed, and has entertainment if she wants it.”

I looked again. Not blind. Just… checked out.

“You said most days?” I asked.

He nodded slowly. “Indeed. She’s more lucid some days than others. It varies in relation to her connection with her power.”

A pause.

“The stronger it is… the less here she is.” He glanced toward her again.

“Today, she’s more in tune with her power.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped forward, holding out a chubby and partially translucent hand to her.

“Come, L. It’s time for breakfast, and Spitfire will help you get dressed.”

She took his hand and stood up, but as she was leaving, she left one hand on my tentacles, still reaching out after it slipped away.

“I um. I’ll be around after, L. I have a lot to do with Faultline today. It was nice meeting you!” I waved a cluster of tentacles at her.

I rose on all fours and started to stretch. I felt well-rested, energized, and more than a little hungry. I never did get a chance to go back home and indulge myself in a bucket of meat-packing waste product slop.

I was still getting used to this body. Heavy, bulky, absurdly strong—but also weirdly coordinated. Graceful, even, without effort. Freakishly flexible. Balanced.

I rapped the back of one big fist against the floor, knuckles first. The three thick ridges above my fingers gave a satisfying, deep clunk.

...Probably fine.

Given I had more space here than I did in my apartment, I let myself go a little wild. Some exploratory stretching. Maybe a bit of testing.

I kicked up into a handstand, balancing on my massive upper arms with laughable ease. My weight was nothing to them. One-handed? Easy.

From there, I flowed into a backbend: feet planted, hands reversed, arching over until I could practically fold myself in half. My tail pressing against my spine was the only thing stopping me from going further.

I pressed my tail down into the floor, used it as leverage, and slowly lifted my upper body upright. Controlled. Deliberate. Muscles working.

One leg up, I hugged it to my chest. Then the other.

Then I reversed it, reaching back to pull each ankle toward my spine.

I ended with a full split. Flattened my torso to the floor.

No tension. No resistance. Just fluid motion.

Wasn’t sure how to stretch a tail, exactly, so I improvised. I coiled it up tight, then twisted the stack with both hands in opposite directions. Felt good. Probably counted.

With that, I rolled my shoulders, shook my muscles loose, and stood tall.

I was ready to face the day. Time to find everyone.

Faultline was in the same room where I’d met her the last two times. She was already seated, already dressed, already caffeinated. No breakfast in sight, just a steaming mug of coffee and her phone in hand.

She was dressed similarly to yesterday, minus the blazer. Business-casual, grounded, efficient.

I entered, and without looking up from her phone, she said, “Things will be much easier today if you are able to change to your human form.”

I paused a moment.

That would mean… A face reveal. But then again, I guess most of the people here don’t do the mask thing, and I know what her face looks like.

She looked up, making eye contact. “Is that going to be a problem?”

I stammered a moment. “I–I don’t have any clothing. It would be uh… a little awkward if I were naked.”

“Right. Well, we have clothing upstairs in a few sizes that should fit you well enough to get things done today.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Unless you have an objection?”

I opened my jaw, then closed it and cleared my throat.

“Uhm. No. Can I have a bathrobe or something, and a couple of minutes of privacy?”

She nodded briskly and stood.

“Back shortly with something.” With that, she left.

I tried to settle my nerves and still my loudly protesting stomach. I suppose on the plus side, I could get a more normal breakfast. That would be a nice change of pace. I made it a little prize for myself.

Faultline returned a few minutes later, handing me a pale green terrycloth robe. It was soft, heavier than I expected. Nice.

“I’ll be waiting outside, so no worries about anyone entering while you’re changing. I imagine you’re hungry as well. Do you want breakfast?”

My stomach answered for me before I could.

“Yes, please,” I added sheepishly.

The door shut, and I sat down and changed. The carpet was warmer under my butt than my kitchen floor, at least. I threw on the robe and cinched it around my waist, and headed out.

Faultline gave me an appraising look when I exited, and I felt a bit of warmth creep into my cheeks.

“Well. I’m sure we can get a few things put together that should fit. I’m afraid you’ll have to make a sacrifice here or there, but I have some ideas on how we can make it work. Follow me.”

We headed to the upper floors I had yet to see. The contrast between the cool stone of the floors on my bare feet and the warmth and softness of the robe was pleasant.

Like the Undersiders, Faultline’s Crew had a living space above their public front. And to my surprise… I thought the Undersiders’ loft was nicer.

Not that there was anything wrong with The Palanquin’s upper floors. But the vibe was more college dorm than lived-in home. Functional. Practical. Efficient, maybe, but not especially cozy.

Faultline’s office was tasteful. A huge oak desk, books of all sorts, a short stack of folders on one side, a fancy and rugged-looking laptop on the other. The high-backed executive office chair was a nice touch. Looked comfy, too.

We walked through a side door, and she had modest living quarters attached. She spoke up while heading over to a closet and armoire, asking: “Preference on style? I have a fairly limited range, but maybe we can find something that will work.”

I ran a finger through my hair and told her, “I typically wear athletic wear at home or out casually. A little more dressy at work or school.” I frowned a bit at the thought. “When I had a job, that is.”

She glanced back at me, eyes roaming my figure again. “It’s going to have to be the former. I’m a fair bit… leaner than you are.”

I coughed. She turned to pull out a few things.

Leaner? I’m no- oh. That was a compliment.

She laid out a pair of bottoms, a short-sleeved Lycra compression shirt, leggings, and a BBU top. She turned around with a pair of sandals and held them up. I shook my head.

“Oh, no, thanks. I don’t think they would go with that very well, and I’m sort of used to being mostly barefoot nowadays.”

That got a smirk out of her. “Sorry for the lack of a top. I don’t have anything that will fit you.”

I waved a hand, dismissing it.

“I’ll be in my office when you’re done getting dressed. Breakfast will be delivered, we’ll get right into things.”

“Oh, wow. I won’t be but a moment!”

I dressed quickly. The clothes fit surprisingly well. We were close in height, and the compression top kept things mostly decent. The overshirt was a little tight in the chest, but not indecent.

I… had not taken Faultline for a thong girl. I sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything, though.

Guess we all had our different faces.

The mental image of her in a matching set did things, but I shook it off. Fast.

I stepped out a moment later and took a seat in one of the chairs opposite her desk.

She had her laptop open and powered on, and sipped her coffee. There was a humongous plate piled high with all sorts of things–a lot of proteins–and cutlery, along with a coffee and a tea.

“Have a seat. I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I had an English breakfast made up.” Her eyes flicked up from her screen to my face as I took a seat across from her. “And you sounded more than a little hungry downstairs.”

I rolled my eyes and only blushed a little. Dryly, I said: “I missed my evening slop bucket with all the excitement, and then I was so tired after our meeting that I chatted with Newter some and immediately passed out.”

I scooted my chair up some and started to eat. I wasn’t going to let this feast go to waste.

A smile teased her lips, and she quirked a brow. “You actually eat buckets of entrails?”

I licked a bit of ketchup off my lips and nodded. “Yeah. Food’s absurdly expensive when you’re knocking back like twenty to thirty pounds of meat at a time.”

She shifted in her seat and replied: “Well. You’re fifty thousand dollars richer this morning than you were yesterday, so you’ll at least have some options, hm?”

I shook my head and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my shoulders that had fallen loose.

Annoying. Wait.

I concentrated a moment and dipped a hand into my power, and a moment later, my hair wove itself into a braid. I resumed eating without missing a beat..

Faultline tongued her cheek and muttered, “I have to admit, I’m a bit jealous at the moment.”

My eyes shot up to meet hers, and I blinked rapidly. “Can’t you like, collapse buildings and cut perfect holes in stuff with just a touch?”

She arched a brow. “Are you proposing I bring down a building to do my hair and makeup?”

Makeup?

“Are you serious right now? I have makeup on?”

She nodded, entirely deadpan.

I sighed.

“Did you not even realize?” She asked.

“My power’s weird. Complicated. I don’t really understand it all that well, but I’m getting better, I guess. I just wanted to get my hair out of my food. I didn’t think—”

I gestured vaguely. “I guess I normally do my hair and makeup together? I wasn’t trying to glam up for eggs and sausage.”

I stuffed a sausage into my mouth and chewed as she calmly sipped her coffee.

Speaking carefully, she asked me: “You don’t have to answer, but I’m curious. What exactly is your power?”

I took another bite or two, washed it down with some really good tea, and dabbed my mouth with the napkin. No lipstick came off.

It’s just… skin pigments. That makes sense.

“Amy–Panacea, she’s been pretty helpful in trying to figure that out. Both of them, really. She was there when I first… became Apex.”

“Both of them being Panacea and Glory Girl?” She clarified, and I nodded.

Still choosing her words carefully, she watched my face closely and asked another follow-up. “When you first gained your powers?”

My eyes widened a bit, and I shook my head quickly. “Oh, no! No, I had my power for a long time before that, I just… didn’t use it? Not really.”

That got a reaction out of her, her own eyes widening a bit, and she tilted her head.

“Why?” she asked. “I mean, it’s not unheard of for people to dislike their powers. Some even avoid using them. But it’s rare. For most, despite the trauma, there’s at least some… excitement. The appeal of being a parahuman.”

I wrinkled my nose slightly, not at her, just at the memory.

“I had a few bad experiences. Nothing serious, nobody got hurt or anything. Just… scared some people. And scared me, too.”

I let the admission hang for a moment.

“That fear stuck.”

I realized I hadn’t answered the original question yet.

“Panacea told me my power is… like hers. I’m a Changer, not a Striker like her—or like you—but the way it works is similar. It changes my biology. Fundamentally.”

I looked down at my plate and pushed a few baked beans around with my fork.

“Somewhere along the line, something or another happened that seemed to trigger it, and my power decided I needed an entirely new body.”

I clenched my jaw. My chest ached saying it aloud, but like Ms. Yamada always said, it got a little easier each time.

“I don’t just look like a big blue monster when I’m Apex. I am one. There’s no… me left in me.”

I looked down at my other hand, turning it over and examining it. “Even now. I’m not a person. Not really. I’m just, my body is just extremely good at faking it.”

Having successfully drained the positivity out of my morning, I tried to refill my tank with some tasty bacon, sausage, and coffee.

“That’s quite interesting. Explains a fair few things, so thank you for sharing.” She shifted in her seat again, resting against the back.

“In the spirit of sharing, I often find myself jealous of others’ powers. Mine is certainly useful, but only in very specific instances.”

She sipped her coffee, then added, “I feel heavily constrained by the Manton limit. That frustration has shaped the way I approach problems. And people.”

Right. Manton limit. She can affect inorganic matter, but not organic. And I’m the opposite.

Which meant… yeah. She couldn’t directly harm someone with her power—only the things around them.

That had to make things complicated.

It’s not easy to drop architecture on someone without seriously hurting—or killing—them.

I nodded slowly as I pieced it together.

I polished off the last of my plate and wrapped both hands around the warm coffee cup. I let the heat soak into my fingers and made myself comfortable in the chair.

“One of the big things we’re going to be talking about today is power. In the abstract sense, not parahuman abilities. Are you familiar with the concept of soft power vs. hard power?”

I held a hand out and rocked it side-to-side. “Sorta?”

“Pay close attention, because this is the single most important thing you need to learn, above everything else.”

I gave a single, resolute nod to her.

“Hard power is strength you can see. Teeth, claws, lightning bolts, force fields. It’s your tail wrapped around someone’s throat. Everyone respects it—but only when you give them a reason to.”

“Soft power is different. It’s control. Not over people, but over situations. Over outcomes. It’s how you build leverage without throwing a punch. It’s making allies, building trust, and earning favors. Getting people to see you as necessary, or reliable, or even just too much trouble to make an enemy out of.”

She raised a brow.

“You can stop a car with one arm, Morgan. But right now? You’ve got no soft power. You’re running on hard power alone—and that’s why people are still trying to test you. You look terrifying, but they’re not scared of you. Not the right way.”

“You need both. Brute force when it’s time to act. And presence, reputation, and influence to keep you from needing to.”

I mulled it over. Tried to see what applications she might be getting at.

Tentatively, I asked: “This is why the PRT came after me, but they don’t bother you?”

She double-tapped a fingernail on the surface of her desk, then pointed at me. “Precisely. Why did the PRT come after you, of all people, when they could have been spending time and resources on others? Think from their perspective.”

I frowned and nibbled on my lower lip. “Because… I represented a potential new threat on their radar, like some of the others at the meeting, but unlike the others, I was easier to get to, alone or in an advantageous position. Limited or no allies.”

I drummed my fingers on the side of my coffee cup, then added: “And I spiked my threat level up with their paranoid delusions that I was trying to blow up the Rig or something.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. More… sharkish.

“You’re a quick study. I couldn’t have put it better myself.” She paused. “You’re quite good at this.”

Then, casually, like it was just another fact: “As was noted.”

As was noted?

I tilted my head, eyes narrowing slightly, but before I could ask, she raised a single finger.

“Let’s continue the lesson, shall we?” Her tone was smooth. Neutral.

“Would you like a demonstration of soft power?”

I tried not to let the sudden spike of concern show on my face. Failed, probably. My brows pulled together. My grip on my cup tightened.

She leafed through a few folders on the side of her desk, pulled one out, and slid it across the desk to me.

Please don’t let this be something involving my family.

It wasn’t, but I wasn’t sure if it was any better or worse, for that matter.

When I flipped the blank folder open, the first thing I saw clipped to the folder and neatly arranged?

My PRT records. As Morgan Rivera. Phoenix Strike.

The color drained from my face.

“Do you see? I didn’t threaten you. I didn’t pry. You simply opened the file, and your reaction told me that the lesson was received. That’s soft power.”

Was–is she threatening me? Or is this really just a lesson?

I gulped. Went to close the folder. She shook her head and pointed to the left side. “Page six. In yellow highlighter.”

I flipped the pages up to the indicated section.

Final Assessment – Rivera, Morgan A. ("Phoenix Strike") Prepared by: Director Emily Piggot, Date: [REDACTED]

Rivera is noted as being remarkably competent in the rigor of her training and study. She is ambitious, dedicated, and skilled in a variety of operational areas. Academic aptitude is well above average, with an analytical temperament and a strong grasp of tactics, field theory, and parahuman ethics. She demonstrates initiative, composure under pressure, and a high tolerance for physical discomfort. Psychological evaluations show high-functioning empathy with stable leadership potential and strong personal discipline.

That said, her parahuman utility is marginal.

Her power lacks significant combat application, suffers from limited scalability, and presents no unique threat profile that would warrant high-priority deployment. In simulated scenarios and supervised testing, she has consistently performed below baseline expectations for front-line Ward engagements. She is not a deterrent, and she is not a priority asset. If not for her work ethic and drive, it is unlikely she would have been cleared for field work at all.

To be clear: Rivera is an exceptional person. She is simply a weak parahuman. Her primary value to the program lies in her reliability and professionalism, and not her abilities. Recommend continued observation for support roles, public relations opportunities, or leadership track outside active engagement. Not suitable for Protectorate candidacy under current performance and classification metrics.

I set my coffee down and covered my mouth with one hand. My vision blurred. I blinked rapidly, trying to force the tears back. The words hit harder than any sucker punch I’d ever taken.

“It’s not all bad,” Faultline said quietly. “Next page.”

I shook my head. Didn’t want to see more.

She sighed. “Just trust me.”

“After you told me not to?” My voice cracked, thick with emotion.

She chuckled, just once. “As I said yesterday: complicated. Just flip it.”

I clenched my jaw and turned the page.

Addendum – Officer’s Note Submitted by: Hannah [REDACTED] (Miss Militia) Date: [REDACTED]

Respectfully, I disagree with Director Piggot’s conclusion.

Rivera may not currently present a high-value combat asset, but I believe her potential has been mischaracterized. What she lacks in offensive power, she compensates for with adaptability, tactical thinking, and the kind of work ethic I rarely see in Wards—especially those who know they’re not the strongest in the room.

Her progress over the past year has been remarkable. She has fought harder than most to overcome a deep-seated fear of her own power, and she continues to do so with grace and determination. That effort alone speaks volumes. If she had access to the right support, I believe she could become something formidable—not just in terms of her abilities, but as a leader.

She is not weak. She is underdeveloped. There's a difference.

Recommend reconsideration for long-term support and mentorship. I’d volunteer to oversee it myself.

—H.W.

Two questions leapt to the forefront of my attention.

“Why are you showing me this?”

Her voice was level. Steady. “It’s the lesson. And it serves several purposes. I paid quite a lot for those records.”

She tilted her head. “Now tell me, was my investment worth it, from the standpoint of soft power? ”

I tried to meet her gaze. I took stock of myself: rattled, exposed. Hurt. The words on that first page left bruises. Hannah’s note had helped, but the impact lingered. The emotional gut punch still echoed in my chest.

And I knew… this probably wasn’t even the worst thing she could have done.

I nodded, slowly.

I asked the other question: “How long have you known?”

I looked up at her as I spoke. That finally earned a smile. Warm this time, not sharp. Her answer came without hesitation, softer than before:

“Since before I ever contacted you.”

I slumped back in my chair. Rubbed my face with my palms. Today was already shaping up to be another one of those days.

“Who else knows, do you think?” I asked, my voice muffled by my hands.

“Well. I have very good contacts with the PRT. Not everyone does. And I also had suspicions. Fortuitous timing on the retirement of Phoenix Strike and the appearance of Apex. Although I will admit, even I had doubts. Part of the reason why I invested in those.”

She took a deep drink of her coffee and set the empty mug back on the desk. “I would say myself, potentially Coil. He’s no fool, values political connections, and has deep pockets. I very much doubt anyone else in the city suspects a thing.”

She paused, gave me a look. “Well. Besides the elephant in the room.”

I groaned.

“Good chance the PRT has a clue.”

I groaned louder. This was going great.

“Cheer up, Apex,” she said, with emphasis on the name. Purposeful.

“If they do know it’s you, I can promise you something, it's chapping their ass to see you out here. Using your power. Growing. And completely embarrassing the leader of the Protectorate ENE by tearing his toys out of his hands in front of his subordinates.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Bitter, but honest. It was funny. Horrifying, but funny.

“As you well know,” she added, “Armsmaster has quite the ego. He won’t take that little display lightly. And Piggot?” She smirked. “She’s probably kicking herself, too.”

“So what now?” I asked, resigned to my fate or my education.

“More lessons,” she said. “But of a different sort. So don’t worry."

She gave me a look, not unkind. “I apologize for blindsiding you like that. But you’ve got a bit of a stubborn streak, and I needed that lesson to get through. You’ll crash and burn if it doesn’t.”

I took a huge breath, my chest stretching out the BBU logo on my shirt. Then I let out a big sigh. In with the new, out with the old.

Did her eyes–?

I leaned forward and grabbed my coffee again. “Alright. What’s next?”

What followed was a multi-hour-long primer on how to do big crime and not big time.

Turns out? I’d been screwing up. Repeatedly. And without even realizing it.

Faultline was a good tutor: supportive, patient, but never afraid to kick the stool out from under you if you weren’t paying attention.

First step? A real bank account.

Unlinked from my identity, untraceable, and offshore. Safe, secure, and most importantly, accessible. It was managed by a third-party intermediary who apparently worked with a lot of capes. Faultline vouched for them.

I’d have to take her word for it.

Next: burner phones. What they were, how to use them, and how not to get sloppy.

She also walked me through setting up a secure device for longer-term use—encrypted, anonymized, with access to reliable cape-side networks. I was advised not to give the number out lightly. Only trusted contacts. Need-to-reach people.

Then came property.

How to find one, how to vet it, how to purchase it quietly. Why I need to stop operating out of my apartment. Faultline said I could afford a starter lair: bare-bones, low-end, but she strongly advised keeping a buffer. Emergencies happen. Have a cushion.

We covered stashes. Bug-out bags. Escape routes. Protocols. The what-ifs of cape life when things go sideways.

We stopped for lunch. She complimented me on how well I was sponging up the material. I grinned and told her that she shouldn’t compromise on choosing her understudies, which got an eyeroll out of her.

While eating lunch in the living area of their lair with Faultline’s Crew, Newter apparently decided it was time to emerge from hibernation.

He wandered in bed-headed, still wearing his wifebeater and baggy jeans from last night, scratching his stomach like a neon-orange cartoon figure.

He looked around the big table we were sharing. His eyes landed on me, and he stopped. He stared. Then leaned back through the doorway, checked the hall like he was verifying timelines, and poked his head back in.

“Apex…?” he asked, slowly.

Gregor nodded once.

Newter’s jaw dropped. “Dude! Holy shit! You really are fucking hot! What the hell!?”

Faultline cleared her throat and gave him a look. A warning one.

Spitfire—Emily, who reminded me more than a little of Amy—scrunched her nose. “Ugh. Pig!” she snapped, and whipped a blueberry muffin at his face.

He caught it midair, grinning like a gremlin, and shoved nearly the entire thing directly into his mouth. Took huge, disrespectful bites. Flipped her off as he sat down.

I glanced across the table and saw L smiling. Soft and quiet, but unmistakably there.

The first real expression I’d seen from her all day.

For a little while, in this strangely sunlit corner of villainy, I felt… okay. Maybe even good. I was smiling too.

Chapter Text

I left the Palanquin a couple of hours after lunch with a few new toys in hand. A very fancy, very expensive phone loaded with security features, meant strictly for cape business. I forwarded updated contact information with a note—good line to contact me on for work matters—to the people who needed it.

I also had a bank card now, linked to my Spook account. I could use it to make purchases or withdraw cash without tying anything back to Morgan Rivera.

Faultline had walked me through a few topics I was already familiar with, but from a villain’s perspective. Things like information security, which I already took pretty seriously. The next steps for building soft power, which included having backups, a better base of operations, and a long-term plan.

We covered cape politics, too. She made it clear that many villains operate a lot like independents. Networking is everything, but trust is rare. She encouraged me to follow a version of what she did. I’d already started, without realizing it. Avoid political games. Don’t overpromise. Learn to say no. Understand your lane and stick to it.

There was a whole section on people and reputations. Contacts, legal firms, villain-friendly lawyers. A vetted list of reliable muscle-for-hire with little notes on each. Faultline made one point very clear: never screw over hired help. Not on pay, not on word, not on expectations. She said the people in that circle talk, and it’s easy to poison the well.

Lastly, she gave me something I wasn’t entirely comfortable with—but she insisted. A compact, military-styled handgun. A few spare mags, ammo boxes, a secure case, and several concealed holsters.

I argued with her about it, but she wasn’t having it. She told me I needed to get in the habit of carrying a weapon whenever I was out as Morgan Rivera. No exceptions.

She gave me a crash course with the handgun—then followed it up with a crash course on two other weapons: a rifle and a compact machine gun.

I’d told her I wasn’t planning to put myself in situations where I’d need a gun. After all, my civilian life was basically a disguise. Her counterpoint was hard to argue with. I’d already been caught off-guard more than once, and no matter how careful I was, I couldn’t control when or where danger might find me.

As for the other weapons? The ABB packed serious firepower. We were heading into battle with them. Knowing how to safely handle a firearm—even if I didn’t intend to use one—was just common sense.

Everything got stuffed into a backpack. Files, folders, and the gun case. All of it.

I stopped at home, stashed the gear, changed into my own clothes, and caught up on calls and texts. It was Monday. School had already let out. I emailed the school saying my attendance would be spotty for the foreseeable future, citing the ongoing city issues.

I figured I wasn’t the only student going off-grid lately.

I had a million things on my plate, but there was one I’d been putting off for way too long. Time to stop avoiding it.

High-waisted leggings, sneakers, a loud graphic tee from some rock band I liked, and a sports bra. Nothing fancy. I grabbed a loose jacket, pulled out the gun case, loaded it, and picked a holster I could tuck into the back of my waistband.

One last mirror check confirmed that my not-makeup game was still on point.

Earbuds in, I stepped outside and started walking. My destination: a place I hadn’t been in weeks.

Home.

I had to pass a checkpoint on the edge of the neighborhood. Nerve-wracking for a second, but they waved me straight through. No issues. They weren’t stopping people on foot unless they looked suspicious or had stuff to smuggle.

I wasn’t sure if I got waved through because I looked like I belonged in the area, or if it was the form-fitting clothing and lack of a bag or what. I wasn’t going to question it.

I felt a touch nervous walking up the sidewalk, unlocking the door, and stepping inside. The chime gave a familiar dong as I opened it.

I didn’t think Mom and Dad would be home just yet, but Melody probably was.

Thumping footsteps from upstairs and the rapid clatter down the stairs were all the warnings I got before she half-tackled me into a hug. She buried her face in my shoulder, I did the same, and I wrapped my arms around her in return.

She was squeezing me tightly and breathing hard, but not saying anything. I couldn’t help but smile.

Her hands drifted across my back. I stiffened for a second when they brushed against the gun, but she just moved her hand and didn’t say anything.

Finally, she let go. She wiped her eyes and leaned in close, peering at my face.

“You look different,” she said, like it was a sudden realization.

I blinked. “I do?”

She reached up, touched my lips with one fingertip, then cocked her head to the side.

Grinning like an idiot, I opened my mouth and nibbled on the tip of her finger. She laughed and yanked it back.

“Let’s go upstairs?” I nodded.

I figured she was going to lead us into her room, but she went to mine instead. It was pretty much the same as how I’d left it. I’d taken a good chunk of my stuff, but the furniture was all there, some extra outfits, and decor.

She closed and locked the door while I took a seat on the bed.

“So,” she started, “no deflecting. What’s with the makeup and your big butt bulge?”

I groaned at the phrasing. “You make it sound like I have a fucking tumor or something.” 

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against my desk, facing me.

“Fine, but no freaking out,” I relented. She rolled her eyes.

“The makeup is my power. I was in a hurry this morning, and… did my hair with my power. I didn’t even mean to do the makeup part, it just sort of… happened. Weird side effect, I guess.”

Melody’s brows rose, but her voice betrayed her excitement. “That’s awesome, Morg! Do you know how much time and money you’re going to be able to save with that? And like…” she trailed off a moment. “Holy crap, you’re getting way better at using it! What gives?”

Her energy was infectious, and I grinned sheepishly. “I’ve just… been using it way more. I guess I finally got over my fear. I’ve been learning all sorts of things about it. I was—”

My voice faltered. Sadness welled up. 

“I was so stupid. Sabotaged myself for so long. Obsessing about what others thought and prioritizing it over what I thought.” 

I sighed.

She sat on the bed next to me and gave me a side hug. “You weren’t being stupid. You were learning. Growing, yeah? Maybe you needed to go slow. Who’s to say the other way wouldn’t have been worse?”

I rested my head against hers and murmured, “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m growing too much. What happens if… my power grows faster than I am? What if I got all twisted up, and I didn’t notice until it was too late?”

She was quiet for a moment, then pulled me in against her, her voice soft.

“Then we deal with that if it happens, huh? You’re still you, Morgan. No matter what happens. I believe that.”

She held me a moment longer, then let go and poked me in the thigh.

“Mmh?”

“No dancing around the subject. The other thing.” She prodded.

“Right…” I reached around with my right hand and pulled the gun from the holster with a soft rasp. I removed the magazine and checked the chamber—just like Faultline taught me. The gun wasn’t large, but it felt heavier than it should in my hand. I bit my lower lip and handed it to Melody.

She inspected it with a surprising familiarity, running her fingertip over the manufacturer’s markings on the slide. After a moment, she handed it back.

I slid the magazine back in and returned the gun to its holster at the small of my back.

She turned to look at me, her face serious. I braced for a lecture.

 “Good. You’re being smart for once.” She popped me lightly on the shoulder with a fist.

“...What?” I asked, incredulous.

“What, what? Do you think I give a shit you have an illegal gun? Do you know how relieved I am that you’re carrying one?”

I blinked rapidly. “I- I had a mentor basically strongarm me into taking it and carrying it. I wouldn’t have, otherwise.”

“Good!”

“Mel, I have powers, I don’t want to carry around or use a gun. It just feels… I don’t know, wrong.” 

She took my face in both hands and stared at me, expression hard as stone.

“I’m glad you have powers. I’m glad you’ve decided to use them to make things better. But your powers didn’t stop you from getting gunned down by ABB thugs and nearly dying .”

I clenched my jaw. She shook her head, firm.

“No. You listen. It’s dangerous out there. Dozens dead. Hundreds missing. Morgan, they’re killing people. Parts of the city are a war zone. If you see thugs in red and green roll up on you, you fucking shoot them. You hear me?”

I took her hands in mine, gently pulling them down from my face.

“Melody… this isn’t like you.”

She squeezed my hands tighter, her voice taut. “I might not understand everything about your powers or your secret nighttime avenger life, but there are things you don’t understand, too.”

I nodded slowly. “So tell me.”

“A bomb went off two buildings down from Dad’s office. People and part of the building interior turned to crystal. Everyone inside? Dead. Just like that. A member of Mom’s software team went home, and now there’s no home. The ABB torched it to distract the army and PRT.”

She stared into my eyes. “People are dying, people we know, who are close to our family, having their lives destroyed. Sirens in the middle of the night. Arcadia? Less than half the students are attending. It’s creepier with school like that than it is with everyone pretending things are normal.”

And I haven’t been there for any of them in all of this.

A pair of tears slipped down my cheek. I looked down at my lap, shame blooming in my chest like rot.

“Hey. No. Quit that. Come here.”

She pulled me into a tight hug. I let out a quiet, broken sob against her shoulder.

“I–I’m sorry I’ve been such a shitty sister during all of this. I just… There’s so much going on, I never have time. I’m spinning 50 plates while trying not to eat shit…” I coughed.

“Listen. Are you doing what you can to help?”

I nodded. “Yes. For days now. Training. Meeting people. Coordinating. Getting information on where and when to hit them.”

She took me by the shoulders, pushed me back firmly, and gave me a shake. “Good. Then you have nothing at all to feel bad about. We’re all doing what we can, however we can.”

I sniffed and laughed. She grinned and teased me: “Besides, weren’t you the one complaining about a lack of growth last time we talked?”

“Oh my god shut up!” I threw a pillow at her. We chatted for about an hour. Mom and Dad came home, and we had a big, dumb reunion even though I’d only been gone a few weeks. While we were catching up, my phone buzzed. The important one. 

I excused myself to the restroom and checked it. 

It’s Coil.

Freestyle Logistics: Available for potentially risky delivery work?

Me: Timetable? Who’s involved? Are any hazard bonuses available?

Freestyle Logistics: Need to deliver the package within an hour. You and a couple of hourly couriers to help offload. Couple of routes are available. Sizeable bonuses available for the very bad routes.

I thought for a moment. All the shit I needed to buy. Getting a property. Everything that entailed. Then, the fear that had taken hold of my family.

This needs to stop. It’s gone on too long already. And I’m already running out the clock on holding this shape.

A heat boiled up in my chest, and a steely resolve settled over me. I was angry about everything that had happened in the past two days. And I was going to do something about it.

My phone buzzed again.

Freestyle Logistics: Time is of the essence. Need a decision.

Me: Give me the absolute worst route you can find. No holds barred. I’ve got bills to pay.

Chapter Text

I arrived at the dockyard destination with ten minutes to spare. I’d rushed as fast as I could, changing back a couple of blocks from home in the pit of a construction site. I’d stashed everything except my phone. It was around six, and the sky was beginning to burn orange.

I wasn’t sure how far the delivery point was from the rendezvous, so I flew low and quietly. I skimmed just over rooftops, twisting, winding, angling sharply to follow the contours of the city. I pushed my airborne agility to its limits—at times, I had maybe a foot of clearance on either side of my wings.

It was exhilarating.

I’d relayed my weight restrictions to Coil, who, in turn, had provided a meeting location: the top of a four-story office building that was still just a concrete shell.

Four men waited for me. Each was kitted out in full tactical assault gear and looked ready for a war zone—gray, blue, and black digital urban camo, black webbing, multiple firearms, spare mags, grenades, radios, helmets, and full ballistic protection. The gear looked heavy, but they looked like they could carry it just fine.

One stepped forward.

“Apex. Chess team here. I’m Bishop.” He gestured to the others in turn. “Knight, Pawn, Rook.”

He tapped a gray-on-black patch on his left breast, mirrored on his right arm.

I dipped my head. “Nice to meet you, Chess team.”

Bishop flipped open a flap on his vest, pulled out a folded map, and set it on the ground. A few pieces of gravel held the corners in place. The other three operators dropped into a crouch, and I joined them around it.

Bishop pressed a button on one of the many tactical attachments on his rifle. Without unslinging the weapon, he used a pressure switch to activate a green laser, guiding it over the map.

“We’re here,” he said, circling a rooftop with the beam. “Bay’s here. Objective buildings here.” He pointed toward the target’s real-world direction for orientation. We were about three blocks out. I nodded.

“This op is mission-critical—part of a multi-phase push tonight.” He glanced at Rook. “Blueprints.”

Rook laid a set of blueprints directly over the aerial photo. “Six floors above grade, two sublevels. Eight total. Primary elevator shafts here and here.” He circled them with the laser.

“Is this aligned to the map?” I asked. Rook adjusted the blueprint, rotating it ninety degrees before placing it back.

“Right,” I murmured. “Two shafts. Four stairwells. What’s the resistance like?”

“High,” Bishop replied. “Expect contact on every level. Heavy foot traffic, high concentration of hostiles. Most, if not all, armed.”

My jaw tightened as I scanned the paper. This wasn’t sounding like a smash-and-grab.

“How many, roughly? And what are they carrying?”

Bishop gave me a look. It was hard to read through his gear, but his eyes narrowed.

“Boss told us to give you a quick brief. Didn’t know you were walking in cold.” A short pause. “Mostly small arms. Some crew-served stuff is possible. ABB’s been bringing in crates for months—we don’t have an exact inventory.”

“I was at a BBQ, about to have some hot dogs and burgers.” I sighed. “Some life, huh?”

That got a chuckle out of the squad. “It’s why we get paid the big bucks,” said Knight.

Bishop rubbed his chin through his cloth face covering. “We don’t have exact numbers. We’ve only been running overwatch for a couple of days. Fifty to sixty, minimum. Possibly more than double that.”

Give me your absolute worst, huh? What’s the worst they’ve got? Lung? Boxing his lights out? No, idiot—try a hundred guys with automatics, maybe explosives, dug into a concrete bunker. Good job, Morgan.

“There are four assault squads on standby to move in once you clear the way,” Bishop continued. “They’ll mop up anything you can’t finish. You’re getting paid per floor cleared, far as I know.”

At least I can tap out early. Suppose that’s something.

I cleared my throat with a rasping hack. “Alright. What’s the objective?”

“Clear as many floors as you can. Minimize structural damage. Seize weapons and materials if possible. Destroy only if necessary.”

“Anything else I should know about the layout or the people inside?”

Pawn chimed in: “There’s probably a cache of explosives somewhere in the building. Smart money says basement level. And the structure’s reinforced concrete.”

“Good or bad?”

“It’ll tank detonations better. That’s the upside. The downside is they’ll fight harder. Might have fallback points, kill zones, maybe even defenses prepped.”

I furrowed my brow. “Explain it to me simply. I know some stuff, but not all the lingo.”

Knight took that one. “Mines. Booby traps. Improvised bombs. Places designed to make you bleed if you take the wrong step.”

My voice came out as dry as my mouth felt after hearing all that. “Right. Mines and explosives. I love those.”

Bishop glanced at me. “Are you up for this? The boss seems to have confidence in you, but this isn’t some walk in the park.”

I rolled my tongue across my teeth, steeled myself, and lied through them. “Are you kidding? I live for this shit. Piece of cake.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Pawn snickered.

Bishop checked his watch. “Five minutes. Any last questions?”

“Yeah. What are you four doing, exactly? Sounds like you won’t be going in with me.”

Rook nodded. “We’re containment. If anyone bolts, we handle it. We’ll also be cutting the power, keeping reinforcements from getting called in. And this—” He pulled out a foot-and-a-half-long device that looked like a chunk of PVC pipe bristling with antennas and switches. “Broad-spectrum area jammer. If the hostages have bomb implants, this should block the signal.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Oh, thank god. That’s huge.”

I looked over toward the target building again. It loomed over the surrounding warehouses, all sharp edges and reinforced concrete.

“I’ll do everything I can to avoid casualties,” I said. I wasn’t sure if it was for them or myself.

“Okay. I need a minute to limber up and prep, and I should be good.”

I set into some stretches, earning a few deep pops and crunches. While I was doing that, I was trying my best to stay level and not panic. I needed… weapons. Things to try and divide and conquer, to dictate the terms of the engagement. I needed every advantage I could get.

I warmed up my power and thought about what it was I was trying for.

Those whips I had before—tentacle whips. Something that could neutralize enemies without killing them. Maybe knockout darts I could fire. Some kind of protection for my ears and head against loud sounds and shockwaves. Oh, and a smokescreen. Definitely a smokescreen.

I sank into my power and let it flow.

The changes were mostly centered on my lower arms. The left one swelled, bulging into a kind of pod across the back of my forearm. The right one became studded with dozens of hard nodules, each tipped with a forward-facing opening. I glanced down. Thin quills peeked out from within each.

Some of my tentacles merged into my helmet, wrapping more tightly around my head, while the rest stuck out the back in a punky spray. Something shifted deep in my ears—I could still hear, I was pretty sure. My lungs burned briefly with a squirming heat, and my back itched just above the point where it had opened yesterday in the ocean.

And that was it. My head bristled with new eyes—I wasn’t sure how many. A tingling jolt zipped down the thirty-odd feet of my spine, from skull to tail tip.

“I’m ready.” I paused. “Say something. Quietly?”

Pawn whispered: “Mic check.”

I nodded.

Oh! Wait—

“Bishop?” He turned, mid-packing, as the team gathered their gear. I held out my phone to him with a long tentacle. “Hang onto this for me. It’s waterproof and durable, but I don’t think it’s bombproof.”

He took it and tucked it into a pouch on his chest.

“Good luck, Apex. We’ll get into position. I’ll signal you with a light—three red flashes, aimed up here. Once you see it, you’re clear to go. We’ll cut the power as soon as they engage you.”

I gave him a ludicrously huge thumbs-up.

Stepping over by the stairwell, I gave the smoke a little test. Just a tiny amount, nothing major. My power responded, and I coughed lightly.

But the smoke didn’t come out of the slot in my helmet—it came out of my back.

Six small balls of inky-black vapor puffed into the air, each one like sooty India ink. They floated for a moment… then pushed outward and expanded. Rapidly. Way too rapidly.

Shit.

I flapped my wings with a quick snap, sending the cloud tumbling away on the breeze. It dispersed almost instantly.

Note to self: Don’t test weapons on rooftops like a dumbass.

I slunk forward on all fours to the edge of the roof facing the target building. A low wall gave me some cover, and I slowly lifted part of my face just high enough to see.

Minutes passed. Too many. The wait gnawed at me. Then, finally, I saw the signal: a dim red light, blinking three times in a steady rhythm.

Here goes nothing.

I backpedaled to the far side of the roof and broke into a run, like I was going to do a street-jump as Phoenix Strike.

Key differences?

Three blocks, not one street.

Way faster.

Wings. Big ones.

I didn’t want to flap them more than I had to—I was going for a stealthy glide, not a dramatic swoop. So I needed a perfect launch.

I got it.

My wings snapped into position as I hit the ledge and leapt into the open air. The initial burst of speed let me climb slightly. I crested… then dropped into a smooth, silent glide.

Three blocks out.

Two.

One.

I was low now, bleeding off speed. Spotlights snapped on, shouts echoed ahead.

The rattle of automatic fire erupted from three rooftop positions. Then a quiet pop—the lights died all at once. I felt a few impacts, but nothing hurt. Just noise and pressure.

I was fine.

And I had made a decision.

Fuck subtlety.

I wasn’t going through a window or climbing some fire escape.

I was going to crash through the front goddamn door.

I’m a multi-ton tank, bitch. Try and stop me.

I hit the ground running, maybe a bit over a hundred yards out, barreling straight down the street at them. My wings were tucked back tight. The muzzle flashes from weapons fire lit up four floors.

Fifty yards out. Thirty.

There was a fwoomp from above—and then the ground a few feet to my right exploded , pavement bursting up in a spray of debris. The concussive blast slammed into my side.

It felt like getting kicked when you’re braced and ready. Not pleasant, but I was fine.

I bulldozed through the front of the building, smashing through a makeshift sandbag barricade. There were at least a dozen people in the corridors to my left and right, and another eight to ten ahead of me, clustered around the first elevator bank. The lights were out, with only scattered emergency floods offering uneven, flickering illumination. Poor visibility. Shadows everywhere.

Some of them had gun-mounted lights. They were screaming, opening fire wildly. The thunder of the gunfire filled the hall, deafening and chaotic.

I could feel the bullets striking me all over—but not a single one hurt.

Where they hit my armored plates, they went plink or ping —like ball bearings on a bell. Shallow hits screeched as they ricocheted. The softer impacts on my soft armor sounded like pop-pop-pop , or thwap , like heavy rain on a tarp. Even through the racket, the spent shells bouncing on the tile floor had a musical, almost windchime-like clatter. Just… not good windchimes.

I took a deep breath.

Then coughed out six jets of dark dust that exploded outward in thick clouds. From within it, my eyes picked out the bright glow of hot guns, the humanoid heat-signatures of panicking people.

I dropped to all fours and started working .

The dart launcher was incredible. I held out my right arm, gave it a twitch, and fwip, a four or five-inch barbed quill launched out with a faint hiss. The little tuft at the end barely fluttered.

One stuck in a man’s side: he clutched at it, swayed, and crumpled, twitching but limp. Another hit a woman in the shoulder. Same result. No blood. No screaming. Just... silence.

The whip wasn’t much use in tight quarters like this, but I didn’t need it. The darts were doing the job beautifully.

I cleared the first floor in minutes. Two dozen bodies, maybe a bit more. Limp, breathing, out cold.

God, I hope the rest of the building isn’t this packed.

I turned for the stairwell. The subfloors were next. I didn’t want anyone escaping down there, especially if bombs were involved. Or worse: accidents near bombs.

The smoke I’d been coughing out kept working in my favor. Every minute or so, another chuff coated the halls with more of the black dust. It was drifting everywhere. Without my heat vision, I’d have been completely blind.

I descended to the first sublevel. Open layout. Fifteen hostiles, tops. Easier to handle. And the crates . Stacks of them.

Weapons. Ammunition. Enough to arm an entire battalion.

That so-called “big bust” I’d made back in March? Drop in the fucking bucket . This place was an arms depot. Maybe literally.

I slinked toward the next stairwell.

The moment I pushed the door open to the lowest floor, all hell broke loose.

A mounted gun on a tripod opened fire from the center of the room. Heavy. Loud. The whole stairwell shook with the force of it.

I wasn’t sure how they were seeing me, but the bullets from that thing fucking hurt . They didn’t ping or pop —they clanged off my hard armor like a sledge on a manhole cover.

The gun fired slower than the others, but in the ten or so rounds that slammed into my chest, about half hit my soft armor, each one blooming into a fiery, burning hell . I ducked back out of the doorway and looked down.

Sure enough. Six finger-sized slugs were sticking out of my skin.

I gritted my teeth, sank the claws of my lower left hand into one, and pulled.

It didn’t want to come out.

When I finally wrenched it free, I saw why. The head had split into petals like a goddamn metal flower, and buried itself deep into my layers of flesh. Inside the petals was a fat, pancaked core—deformed but brutal.

I yanked out two more and took a moment to breathe. Thick, syrupy black ichor oozed from the wounds. Not gushing , but bleeding steadily. It was already clotting, congealing like tar.

I brought my face to the side of the door and roared :

“HEY! FUCK YOU! THAT HURT! ”

The reply was immediate: another THUNK-THUNK-THUNK-THUNK burst that shredded the doorframe, then sawed through both walls left to right. One round clipped me in the ass, and another slammed  into my face.

I ran up the stairs.

Gritting my teeth, I tore out two more rounds from my torso. The one that hit my face had exploded on impact—shrapnel embedded in and pierced through the lens over my eye. It was leaking, and it hurt .

Focus. Losing one eye won’t kill you. The longer you wait, the worse this gets.

I moved silently along the floor above, estimating the gun’s position.

Here goes nothing.

I dropped to all fours, backed up, then drove my tail down into the floor. The claws snapped into a drill-like point and punched through the concrete. I splayed them into a crude club and swung blindly beneath me.

We call this fishing for assholes.

I struck something soft. Screams. Then something solid and heavy. Bingo. I fed more of my tail down, repositioned, and brought it down hard .

Please don’t be a bomb.

Something crunched. Something big .

If only I could see what the hell I was doing—

Wait. My power stirred.

… I’m an idiot.

A surge rushed through me, and an eye opened at the tip of my tail. Holy shit—I could see. Heat signatures lit the room: a few slumped bodies, a few still moving. The tripod gun was bent and broken.

I slithered down the staircase, cleaned them out with darts, and made my way back up.

Second floor.

It was part barracks, part squatter’s den. Hammocks, cots, camp stoves. It reeked with filth. But it was also empty. Not sure if that was a relief or a trap.

I switched staircases and crept up to the third floor. Smarter this time. I peeked around the corner with my tail’s eye.

Bingo.

The missing second-floor occupants were all here. Sandbags. Overturned tables. Old machinery turned into cover. A lot of people.

I was going to have my work cut out for me.

Still. I wanted to at least try diplomacy.

From the halfway landing, I yelled:

“I’ve cleared a third of the building! Drop your guns and surrender! No one else needs to get hurt!”

There was a moment of silence.

Then someone screamed, “ Die, mazoku! ”

And about three seconds later, five grenades clinked and bounced through the doorway, rolling down the stairs right toward me.

Best I could tell, one grenade bounced down the stairwell and exploded below. One was smoke, which didn’t do much. Two went off right near me and splattered metal across my flank.

The last one made a pop-bang, not a real explosion. For a half second, I thought it was a dud.

Then the pain hit.

A flash of blinding white seared across my vision, overloading my senses. I jerked my head away so hard I smashed it into the stairwell wall.

Something white-hot sprayed across my left side. It stuck.

I had just enough time to wonder why it was sticking. Then I learned a new kind of pain.

It stuck because it was burning through me.

I roared and smashed through the second-floor doorway wall, hurling myself onto the concrete floor, rolling hard. Trying to put the fire out.

It didn’t go out.

Hissing jets of steam and sickly-smelling smoke poured from my side where it melted through my soft armor. My hard plates were holding, but not for long. Two of my left wings were on fire. I flopped onto my back and slammed them into the floor until the flames sputtered out.

I was still burning. Still rolling. Still not out.

That’s when I heard them. Voices—shouting—coming through another stairwell.

Six of them, all with guns, spilled into the room halfway down the floor.

I had other things to worry about currently, like being incinerated.

Ignoring them was another mistake.

Gunfire erupted. Bullets raked across my side and back, not stopped by soft armor this time. Like a hundred bee stings, all at once.

I twisted, planted all fours, and turned to face them.

Six firing. Two more came through the stairwell behind them.

Rocket launchers.

Oh for fuck’s–

Two booms, less than a second apart. I didn’t think, I reacted. Claws dug into the floor as I whipped my tail around. I caught the first rocket with the curve of my tail and smashed it aside. Thankfully, it didn’t detonate.

The second hit dead center.

It was like a truck barreling into my chest at highway speed. I was launched backward, smashed through windows and part of the wall, and slammed down on the pavement outside.

Flat on my back. Gasping. Wheezing. Everything ached.

I frantically patted myself down with my lower arms.

Broken bones in my left arm. My chest plates were cracked and glowing. Black ichor oozed out from the deeper breaks. Parts of my soft armor were scorched black.

I was alive. And I was pissed.

I rolled onto all fours and did a quick self-assessment.

I was bleeding all over. Still smoking, still burning on the inside—but it felt like it was winding down.

If my usual appearance was frightening, my current look was full-on horror show. Trails of black tar oozed from my skin, dripping in ropes. Smoke hissed from the holes burned through my left side. One eye ruptured. Armor plates cracked and glowing. A third of my wings were in charred tatters.

Fuck the mission objectives. Fuck profit motive. Coil isn’t hurting for money.

I’m done fucking around.

I coiled low, like a terrible spring, and launched myself up the side of the building. Wings flared wide—painfully—but they worked well enough. I crested the sixth floor and slammed down onto the rooftop.

There were half a dozen people up there. They didn’t even scream at first—just stared, stunned, as I burst into view like a jack-in-the-box straight out of hell.