You swivel around to the Heap, that trusty mountain of laundry you keep meaning to wash, and wipe your fingers clean with practiced ease.
If anyone from school ever saw your room, or knew what you actually did in here, your social life would flatline instantly. Instant game over. Just the thought of it sends a cold, embarrassed shiver down your spine.
And of course, that line of thinking drags your mind right back to your other source of stress: Emma and Sophia. The way they torment Taylor, the awful things they're planning... it makes your stomach twist.
You let out a frustrated grunt and swivel back to your screen. Enough of that. It's time for something reliable, Diablo II. There's nothing quite like carving through hordes of monsters to clear your head. Therapy by way of demon slaying.
You scroll through your characters, hovering for a moment over your barbarian. The idea of mindless smashing has its appeal, but today doesn't feel like a barbarian day. You back out, leaving only your two reliable favorites, your Necromancer Skellyman, lord of the dead… or your Paladin Ser Crushinator, the hammer of the righteous.
Your thoughts drift back to your dream, the woman wreathed in flame, wielding her mace like it was an extension of her will. Powerful. Fearless. Unshakable.
You go with Ser Crushinator.
Soon you're deep into Hell, Ser Crushinator cutting a righteous path through the legions of the damned. Demons fall like wheat before a holy scythe, their screeches drowned beneath the crash of hammers and the jingle of loot. Even that one edgy, spiteful angel, Izual or whatever, goes down with a satisfying crunch.
Guy always did have that "bitter ex" energy.
But Act IV never overstays its welcome, and before long, you're standing at the edge of the Chaos Sanctuary. The ground trembles. The screen darkens.
It's time.
You're about to throw hands with the Prime Evil himself.
Diablo.
The battle is long and harrowing, at least by Diablo standards. Fire rains from the heavens, lightning dances across the blood-soaked stone, and your health orb is basically playing jump rope. But thanks to your borderline pathological hoarding of healing potions, you cling to life and finally bring the demon lord to his knees in a glorious, hammer-swinging, potion-guzzling victory.
Triumph is yours. Evil is defeated. The forces of Light rejoice.
And then you look at the loot.
"What is this trash?!" you screech, eyes wide in disbelief.
A rare Sacred Orb. That's the best drop. An item you can't even use. You're a Paladin, not some squishy magic nerd.
Your stash is already overflowing with garbage, and now Hell itself has seen fit to insult you with this glittering pile of vendor bait.
Frustrated, you teleport back to town and pause the game. You've had enough digital disappointment for now.
You head downstairs, the clock edging into mid afternoon territory. Grabbing a small bag of chips, you crunch away at them with perhaps a little more aggression than strictly necessary. Your parents are on the couch watching Robocop, classic choice, and the theme music provides a dramatic backdrop as you pace aimlessly around the kitchen, finishing the bag in record time.
You glance down at your hands, perfectly smooth and unblemished. It's unsettling, these are hands that should be scratched, bruised, or at the very least tetanus ridden after crawling through that OSHA-defying nightmare of a drug den last night.
You shake off the creeping unease. Enough moping; it's time to do something productive. Quietly, almost comically stealthy, you slip out the back door into your backyard.
It's time for power testing, or rather, checking if you even have powers in the first place. Not that you're acknowledging that last part, you're not here to be a downer. Because, damn it, things are finally coming up Madison!
You make your way over to the old, neglected shed, mind racing with excitement. First test: super strength. It's straightforward enough, you just need something heavy. Your eyes land on the ancient lawnmower languishing in the corner, coated in rust and despair.
The perfect test dummy.
You brace yourself, gripping the handle awkwardly. Your feet nearly slip out from under you at first, and you nearly topple sideways, dignity clinging by a thread, but you steady yourself and put your back into it. With monumental effort, you slowly lift the machine clear off the ground.
YOU PICKED IT UP!
Carefully setting it down (it's been through enough), you break into an enthusiastic little victory dance. Okay, maybe it's not super super strength, but it's definitely more than you had yesterday. Before today, the most you could've done to the lawnmower was hurt its feelings.
Maybe.
Anyway, turns out you've got the strength of a full-grown man packed into a five-foot-nothing teenage girl. That's… honestly pretty cool. Take that Coach Seneca! You were in fact not "delicate!"
Next test, super speed. You glance back at the backyard, then up at the house, specifically the wall of windows your parents could easily peek through at any moment. Probably best not to start sprinting in frantic circles like a caffeinated toddler.
Yeah… let's table that one for now.
Endurance, though, that's promising. You remember how far you ran last night, how fast, how long. And the weirdest (best) part? You weren't even winded. Time to see if that was a fluke or something very exciting.
If running's off the table thanks to parental surveillance, that leaves you with the next best (read: worst) option, jumping jacks.
You groan internally.
You hate jumping jacks. They're dull, repetitive, make you feel like you're the worlds biggest idiot. They're the physical embodiment of boredom. But hey, needs must when you're low-key testing for superpowers.
With a dramatic sigh, you begin. Arms up, legs out. Arms down, legs in. Rinse and repeat.
Up and down.
Up and down.
...
Up and down.
...
...
Up and down.
...
...
...
Up and down.
...
...
...
...
Up and down.
...
...
...
...
...
Up and down.
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
Up and down?
You blink.
You've been going at it for a while now. You should be huffing and puffing, but your breathing is steady, your muscles barely even tingling. You could keep going if you wanted to. You don't, obviously, but that's not the point.
You stop, arms flopping to your sides.
Endurance? Check. Probably. You're not a scientist or anything, but this feels like superhero math™.
Okay, you've tested the easy stuff. Strength? Check. Endurance? Big check. Speed? Pending. Now what?
You glance down at your hands again.
Your perfectly unmarred, suspiciously un-sliced, un-bruised hands.
A thought creeps in. A dumb one. An incredibly dumb one.
Are you seriously considering hurting yourself to test for super durability?
You stare at your fingers. Wiggle them. Perfectly normal. Perfectly human.
Are you an idiot?
…
You walk, slowly, reluctantly, over to the old shelf in the corner. The one cluttered with tools, screws, and a disturbing number of sharp pointy objects you're pretty sure haven't been cleaned since the Clinton administration.
You scan the shelf.
Broken screwdriver. Boxcutter. Rusty garden shears.
Oh my god.
You really are an idiot.
TV and video games have finally done it. They've rotted your brain clean out of your skull. You've gone full Saturday morning cartoon logic. What's next? Jumping off the roof to see if you can fly?
You stare at the shelf like it personally betrayed you. Because this can't be your fault. It is clearly the shelves fault for existing and holding all these sharp and pointy objects in your moment of weakness.
Enough procrastinating.
You grab the box cutter.
It's lighter than you expected. Cold in your hand. Too clean, somehow, for what you're about to do.
You line it up with your thumb.
You don't push.
Not yet.
You stare at your hand like it's a stranger's. It trembles a little. Your body's already trying to talk you out of this, every nerve screaming bad idea, abort mission, stupid alert.
You hesitate.
Again.
You hesitate for so long it feels like the box cutter is getting heavier, like it's judging you.
So, before you can back out, you grit your teeth, shut your eyes, and slam it down.
PAIN.
White-hot, blinding, absolutely real pain explodes through your thumb.
You instantly jam your hand in your mouth, biting back the scream that almost tears free from your throat. You're not going to scream and get caught doing this. You refuse to scream. Not out loud, anyway.
Your brain, however, is screaming plenty.
Bitch ass mother fucker. What the fuck was I thinking?!?
Why did I do that?! Who gave me permission?! I need adult supervision!
Who does this?! What is wrong with me?!?
Why did I think I was stab proof?!? I am in fact quite stabbable!!
Superhero math™ failed me!
Tears blur your vision. You're hopping in place, hand still in mouth, spiraling into a pain fueled meltdown-
-and then you see it.
You blink through the tears, heart pounding in your ears.
The blood.
It's not red.
It's gold.
Thick. Metallic. Luminous in the dusty light of the shed.
Your pain fades into stunned silence.
You pull your hand back from your mouth and stare at it, your thumb still pulsing, still cut-
-but glowing.
What the fuck.
You stare, dumbfounded, at the brilliant gold leaking from your thumb. It gleams unnaturally in the dim light, rich and vivid, like molten sunlight dripping from your skin.
And then, before your eyes, it stops bleeding. Just like that. The cut's still there, plain as day. No cinematic healing sequence, no skin knitting itself back together with a magical whoosh.
But… it's not bleeding. At all.
You don't feel the pain anymore either.
You don't even know what to say. Or what to think. Your brain is just static. Gold blood. No bleeding. No pain.
Is this… normal for a cape?
Like, having mutations or whatever? Golden blood? That's not on any Wiki page. You've read plenty of cape forums, way too many if you're honest, and you're pretty sure glowing Midas juice leaking from your hand would've come up at some point.
This can't be normal.
This can't be normal.
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
It's fine. It's fine.
You have golden blood and it doesn't matter one bit. Totally manageable. Just a quirky side effect. Like sparkly sweat. Or laser tears. Right?
Right?!
Okay. Okay. No panicking.
Count to ten.
Inhale.
Count to ten.
Exhale, thank you Wolfenstein.
Breathe.
You are calm.
You are definitely calm.
You are a perfectly sane girl who stabbed herself in a shed and discovered she bleeds like a fantasy loot chest.
Everything is normal.
Okay, so let's tally this up, you're a cape with the strength of a dude that does Crossfit, and, you guess, golden blood. That's a weird résumé already.
Is that the sum of your abilities? The whole kit? Strength, stamina, and sparkly bodily fluids?
No.
You can do more than that. You know you can. Your mind drifts back to your grand escape from Bad Life Choices Central. Think. Think.
When you got out through that door, you felt something. You're sure of it. They couldn't follow you. They tried, but the door didn't budge. Why?
You stare at your not-stabbed hand in thought, then glance at the clutter in the corner of the shed.
An old galvanized pipe. The rusted head of a busted sledgehammer.
Perfect.
You grab both and hold them together. Not balancing, not fitting, just touching.
Okay. Now what?
You awkwardly wiggle your fingers in front of them like you're casting a spell in a Saturday morning cartoon. Shockingly, the universe does not respond.
You bite back your frustration. No. You need focus.
You press your hand to the pipe, close your eyes, and want it. Not wish. Not hope. Want.
You don't know how long you stand there. But eventually… something shifts.
It's a strange feeling, like flexing a muscle you didn't know you had.
You open your eyes and lift.
The pipe and hammerhead rise as one, joined, solid, seamless.
You stare for a long, reverent second.
Then you cackle. Loud and gleeful.
You made a hammer.
With your fucking mind.
Best. Day. Ever.
…
Even with the self-stabbing.
…
…
Uh.
How long have you been in here?
You glance at the shaft of sunlight spilling through the warped shed door and realize, with dawning horror, that you've been in here way longer than intended. You should probably head back inside before your parents finish Robocop and come looking for you.
You slip out quietly, trying not to look like someone who just constructed a blunt weapon with their brain.
The rest of the night is a blur of grinning like a total loon. Your parents notice, of course, your mom gives you a squinty look over dinner, and your dad raises an eyebrow with that suspicious "what did you do" expression.
But in the end, they just shrug it off. Probably chalked it up to video game nonsense again.
You want to tell them. That you're this happy for a very good reason. That it's not nonsense at all. That it's real, and amazing, and golden-blooded and hammer-forging awesome.
But you don't.
Because, well... obvious reasons.
It's only as you crawl into bed, sheets cool and familiar, that your good mood starts to fade.
Because tomorrow is Monday. And Monday means Winslow. Which means Emma. And Sophia. And pretending everything's fine when it absolutely is not. The thought creeps in, dull and heavy, there won't be much time to experiment with your powers during the week. Not with school. Not with them.
You groan, flopping onto your pillow dramatically.
You have superpowers. Literal golden blood and hammer-making brain magic. Standing up to a couple of mean teenagers shouldn't even be hard.
Maybe.
But someone should really go ahead and tell your anxiety that.
...
Bummer.
And with that final, deeply relatable thought, your eyes flutter closed, and you start to drift off, dreams already buzzing with a future you're just starting to reach for.
It's Monday and you need a strategy, you do have one of those right? Note, you can fail this.
[ ] Fade Into The Background Like a Drama Goblin
You're done. So done. But announcing it would be way too much. Instead, you quietly ghost Emma's texts, duck Sophia in the halls, and generally act like a background NPC until they get the hint, or don't. Either way, it's not your problem anymore. Probably.
[ ] "I'm Out" But Make It Passive Aggressive
You drop a polite but pointed group chat message about "growing as a person" and "rethinking priorities." Then you log off and don't answer their calls. The nuclear option, but with glitter and plausible deniability. You're so mature now.
[ ] Become The Girlboss They Fear
Don't just leave. Replace them. Gather a collection of misfits, weirdos, and disgruntled ex-friends. You've studied Emma's tactics long enough, it's time to use them for good. Declare yourself Queen of the Drama Club or whatever social kingdom you can forge. Sophomore year revolution starts now.
You have one free action on Week days, what do you do? Only one will be selected, approval voting is fine.
[ ] Notebook of Secrets, Vol. 1
Start documenting everything. Powers. Feelings. Hammer construction technique. Fluctuations in blood sparkle. Keep it all in a secret notebook labeled something misleading like Pre-Calc Homework. Start charting patterns. Don't trust your memory. Do trust highlighters.
[ ] Stress Skip: Fake Sick and Bail
School? Optional. Morality? Flexible. You "suddenly" come down with a mysterious illness and get yourself sent home by second period. Power testing awaits. Maybe you'll throw yourself at a brick wall to see what happens. Maybe you'll take a nap. Either way, Winslow can survive without you. Select two other non school related actions.
-[ ] Action 1
-[ ] Action 2
[ ] Channel the Spirit of Academia (and Try Not to Die of Boredom)
Actually engage with your classes today. Weird, right? See if chemistry class makes more sense now that you bleed like an art piece. Maybe something about math or physics will click in a way it never has. Worst case scenario, you learn something useful. Best case? You weaponize algebra.
[ ] Observe the Flute Goblin in Her Natural Habitat
Taylor's weird. But like… interesting weird. Start low-key people-watching her between classes. You're not stalking. You're observing. For science. Maybe she knows something. Maybe she's got a vibe. Maybe you're just lonely and don't want to admit it.
[ ] Superpowered Hall Monitor: Patrol for Vibes
You've got enhanced endurance, golden blood, and a growing hammer building brain. Time to walk the halls with purpose, like some kind of knockoff vigilante substitute teacher. You're not gonna fight anyone, probably, but if anything sketchy happens, you'll be there. For once.
[ ] Mysterious Magical Backyard Shenanigans, Round 2
As soon as the school day ends, you're heading straight home to commune with the sacred shed again. There's no way that golden blood and hammer-from-mind trick was the end of it. Your destiny is calling, and it sounds like creaky hinges and poorly stored power tools.
[ ] PHO Deep Dive: Cape Weirdness Rabbit Hole
You can't focus at school anyway, so you might as well go home and research gold blood, weird powers, and other cape trivia. You might not get real answers, but you'll definitely get weird forum drama and unhinged conspiracy theories. Worth it.
It isn't until you're halfway up the cracked stone steps of Winslow High that the full, staggering stupidity of your plan finally hits you.
Are you really about to commit social suicide by way of Emma? Wage an all-out, no-holds-barred popularity war to seize control of Winslow, the least prestigious hellhole on the Eastern Seaboard?
Why?
You don't need this kind of drama. You don't need to paint a target on your back to prove you're trying to be a better person. You could just shrink into the background, keep your head down, and quietly apologize to Taylor.
So why this?
Why now?
The slow, steady burn of ambition in your gut answers for you. It's not loud. It's not fiery. But it's there, hot and constant.
You're done surviving. It's time to do something.
You walk into the school, shoulders squared, heartbeat just a little too fast. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like a warning.
You're not two steps in before Emma and Sophia spot you.
Sophia is… Sophia. Silent, sharp-eyed, all thinly veiled contempt and "I might kick your ass just for breathing loud" energy. Business as usual.
Emma, on the other hand, greets you with a warm smile and a chirpy, "Hey, Maddie!" Like you're best friends. Like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
From the outside, it probably looks genuine. To the average passerby, you're just three girls walking into homeroom together, normal. Popular. Untouchable.
But you and Emma know better.
You're not friends.
You're using each other.
You cling to her for clout, protection, social gravity. She keeps you around because you're useful, a mouth to echo her cruelty, another pair of eyes to watch Taylor squirm, one more tool in her ever sharpening kit.
No illusions. No pretense.
You're both just playing your parts.
You slip into the rhythm of fake small talk like slipping on an old, uncomfortable sweater, itchy, constricting, yet familiar.
"Oh my god, did you see what Sarah was wearing Friday?" Emma chirps, tossing her hair with the kind of practiced grace that makes teachers call her charming and girls call her a bitch when she's not around.
You nod, lips twitching into a mock-smile. "Yeah, she looked like a walking, talking thrift store."
Emma laughs, not because it's funny, but because you played your role right.
Sophia snorts, trailing behind like a silent enforcer, arms crossed and eyes sweeping the hallway, searching for an excuse.
You all keep moving, the three of you the head of a social shark pack, your footsteps aimed with practiced ease. You don't have to ask where you're going. You already know.
Emma is guiding her orbit, and you along with it, toward her usual target. The same one as Friday. The same one as every day.
Taylor Hebert.
She's at her locker, hunched slightly, like she's bracing for impact but hoping today might be different.
It never is.
You keep talking like everything's normal, like you care about the garbage spilling out of each other's mouths. You ask Emma about her math grade. She complains about lunch options. You laugh at something you didn't really hear.
All just noise.
Noise that carries you closer to the girl you tormented, the one the mere sight of fills you with guilt.
Emma launches into one of her favorite routines, her voice pitched just loud enough for nearby students, and especially Taylor, to hear.
"God, does anyone else smell that?" she says, crinkling her nose like something offensive just walked through the hall. "Oh wait, never mind. It's just it."
She doesn't look at Taylor. That's part of the game. Talk about her like she's scenery. Like she doesn't matter. Like she's not standing two feet away, clutching her books a little too tight.
Once upon a time, it used to rile Taylor up. She'd bark back, lash out with sarcasm or a cutting glare. But that fire got smothered. Now she just lowers her head and takes it, jaw clenched, eyes downcast.
But silence doesn't work anymore. Not with them.
Sophia steps in, close enough to violate every social boundary.
"Oh, so you're too good to talk to us now?" she says, leaning into Taylor's space, a smirk curling her lip. "Little Miss wallflower, too busy pretending she's better than everyone?"
You feel it in your gut, that shift in Sophia's tone. That quiet buzz in the air like a storm rolling in.
You know what's about to happen.
You've seen it enough times to recognize the signs.
Sophia's about to "teach Taylor a lesson."
The kind that leaves bruises.
Your throat tightens. Your stomach knots.
You don't want to be here.
But here you are.
Sophia raises her fist
And you see red.
Taylor Hebert has had a really shitty year and a half.
Her mother died. Her best friend decided that emotional evisceration was a fun new hobby. Her father's barely holding it together, a flickering shadow of the man he used to be.
And now, because the universe just can't help itself, Sophia's about to beat her. Again.
Because of course she is.
Sophia raises her fist.
Taylor covers her head on instinct, arms curled tight around her skull, hands guarding her glasses. She braces for impact. She knows how this goes.
A meaty thwack cuts through the noise of the hallway, sharp and sudden, louder than it has any right to be.
But… she feels fine.
No pain. No blow. No sharp breath knocked from her lungs.
Silence follows. Heavy. Total. The kind of silence that drops when the very air is shocked by what just happened.
Slowly, Taylor opens her eyes.
Sophia Hess is on the floor.
Unconscious. Out cold. Like someone flipped her off switch.
Standing over her, fist still slightly raised, eyes wide with adrenaline-
Is Madison fucking Clements.
What?
Taylor's brain stalls, rebooting in real time.
Before she can even begin to gather her scattered wits, Madison is already shouting, no, declaring, like some pint-sized avenging angel with a mean right hook.
"If anyone wants to fuck with Taylor, they have to get through me first, you got that?!"
What?
She-Madison-Madison Clements just said that. Loudly. In front of everyone.
I-but she-I don't-
Taylor's mind spirals, her thoughts clashing like crashing waves. Confusion, disbelief, a spark of vindication, and something warm and terrifying fluttering just beneath her ribcage.
She can't look away.
Why is Madison doing this? How even? Why does her stomach feel weird?
Her heart is a little too loud in her ears.
Absolute chaos. All of it. Inside and out.
She sees Emma standing there stiff as a board, a smile stuck on her face, but her eyes promise pain.
Madison turns to her, eyes still blazing with leftover fury but now softened with concern.
"Are you okay?" she asks, voice gentler now.
Words. Taylor can do words. She's spoken before. She knows how mouths work.
"Murble."
What was that? Was that even a human sound? Did her tongue just betray her entire species?
Madison blinks, then gives her a look full of genuine worry. Worry. For her.
Taylor's cheeks erupt in heat. Her face feels like it's about to catch fire, and her heart is still trying to punch its way out of her chest.
"Come on," Madison says, more quietly now. "We need to get to first period."
She reaches out, grabs Taylor's hand like it's the most natural thing in the world, and starts walking.
And Taylor… lets her.
Fingers curled around Madison's, lips still stuck somewhere between murble and an actual word, she lets herself be led down the hall and through the parting crowd.
Her brain might still be rebooting, but her feet know better.
What the actual fuck is wrong with you?
Did being kidnapped break your brain? Did nearly getting shanked in a drug den awaken some kind of adrenaline-seeking goblin inside you?
You try to scold yourself, but the giant, ridiculous grin plastered across your face as you sit in first period tells a very different story.
Yeah. Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was stupid.
But for a moment, just one, you felt like a real hero.
Like a knight in shining armor, minus the horse, plus a surprise haymaker. And you felt that feeling again. Like electricity down your spine. Like you could punch out God, or something.
You did good. Actual good.
Of course, actions have consequences. Word spreads fast in Winslow, and by the time the bell rings, you've become something of a hallway cryptid. People are giving you space. A lot of space. Whether it's out of respect, fear, or a deep desire not to end up the next social cautionary tale, you're not sure.
Either way, you left a mark.
Not the mark you planned, exactly, but an impression all the same. And impressions? One like this one? You can work with those.
Now if only Taylor Hebert would stop staring at you like you're some rare and deeply confusing forest creature that wandered into her life and punched a bully unconscious. Because, like… fair. But still.
Damn, she's got expressive eyes.
Much of the day passes in a weird, awkward bubble. People still give you that wide-eyed, careful kind of look, like you're either going to lunge across a desk and suplex them or infect them with whatever social plague you apparently carry now.
And Taylor… well, Taylor keeps staring.
In the few classes you share, her eyes keep drifting toward you. Like she's trying to solve an equation with too many variables and no known constants. You're starting to wonder if she thinks you've been body-snatched.
Lunchtime rolls around, and you find yourself sitting alone at one of the smaller tables. Not out of choice, just that everyone else seems to have collectively decided that you need a ten-foot buffer zone.
You poke at your food, deep in thought. Normally, you'd be stressing about Sophia and Emma retaliating, but… Sophia's been sent home, and Emma? She's not exactly the type to throw herself into a fight that might turn physical without her enforcer at her side. She's more of a puppetmaster than a duelist.
You're safe, for now.
You glance up, and yep. There she is again. Taylor Hebert: Professional Starer.
You lock eyes with her and, on impulse, give a tiny wave, then motion to the empty seat across from you.
She stiffens.
For a second, you're pretty sure she's about to bolt out of the cafeteria like a startled deer.
But then, slowly, cautiously, like she half-expects it to be a trap, she walks over and sits down across from you.
She predictably keeps staring.
Her eyes search your face like they're trying to find the seams, like you're a puzzle that doesn't fit together, no matter how hard she tries.
And then, finally, she speaks. Just one word.
"Why?"
Of course that's the question she'd ask. It makes sense. It hurts, a little, more than you expected, but you earned it.
From her perspective, this is nonsense. You've tormented her for over a year, stood by while others did worse, laughed at her pain like it was some kind of joke. You should be her enemy, full stop.
And yet here you are. You knocked Sophia the hell out. Publicly. Loudly. Drew a line in the sand and spray-painted her name on your side of it.
She's trying to make it make sense.
You don't blame her for failing. Hell, you barely understand it yourself.
"I couldn't do it anymore," you say, voice low but steady.
"You didn't deserve what we did to you, and I'm sorry."
Taylor's eyes narrow just a little, not in anger, but in that quiet, cautious way people do when they're bracing for impact.
"The guilt's been eating me alive for months…" You glance down at your tray, suddenly hyper-aware of your hands, your posture, everything. "But I didn't have the spine to actually do anything. I was scared. Of losing everything. Of them."
You take a breath.
"But then they told me their plan. What they were going to do to you after winter break…"
Your throat tightens.
"I couldn't be part of it. I couldn't just watch it. So I did something."
Taylor's voice is soft, but it cuts through the fog in your head.
"What were they going to do?"
She's not accusing. She's not angry. She's just... trying to understand. Trying to weigh the scales and figure out what makes a person like you do this.
You shake your head.
"Something bad. Really bad. I don't even want to say it out loud." You look her in the eye. "But if nothing else… skip the first day after winter break. Just in case. Please."
She's quiet again.
So you add, one last time, softly, sincerely.
"If you never trust me again, I get it. I do. But trust me on that."
"Please."
"Okay." She agrees.
You both eat in silence after that… But you felt just a little lighter.
When you finally get home later that day, you're practically floating. You feel good, great, even. Today went better than you'd ever dared to hope, especially considering you basically threw a social grenade at the Winslow hierarchy. Somehow, you're still standing, and you've made amazing progress with Taylor.
Later that evening, curled comfortably at your desk while browsing through PHO, your mind drifts into planning mode. Ideas flicker through your head, ways to capitalize on your shiny new reputation, things you might do tomorrow, alliances you could build.
You can't stop smiling.
For the first time in a long time, you're genuinely excited to see what tomorrow brings.
To fight Emma you need an army, but who?
[ ] [Clique Creation] Queen of the Nerds, Ruler of the Forums
You know where the real power is, in the Wi-Fi-addled minds of the gaming weirdos, PHO lurkers, and people who bring dice bags to lunch. You're one of them, kind of. Time to unite them under one banner, you'll be the cool nerd. The leader with actual punching credentials. The Anti-Bully with a Battle.net account.
[ ] [Clique Creation] Maximum Chaos, Maximum Inclusion: The Anti-Emma Coalition
No standards. No cliques. No questions. Nazi, ABB, or anything inbetween. If you're not Emma or Sophia, or actively trying to be Emma or Sophia, you're in. Your new power base is built on spite, and raw, unfiltered petty energy. This is no empire. This is a revolution. Welcome to the mutiny. Bring snacks.
[ ] [Clique Creation] Assemble the Punch Squad
Every queen needs her knights. It's time to scout out the cafeteria for other rough-around-the-edges types, detention regulars, burnt out weirdos, and that girl who once headbutted a vending machine, and won. You're building a crew with grit, attitude, and enough lingering anger issues to scare off Emma loyalists. It might not be elegant, but it'll get the job done. Strength in numbers. Swagger in surplus.
Now, for your daily action.
[ ] [Activity] Superpowered Hall Monitor: Patrol for Vibes
You've got enhanced endurance, golden blood, and a growing hammer building brain. Time to walk the halls with purpose, like some kind of knockoff vigilante substitute teacher. You're not gonna fight anyone, probably, but if anything sketchy happens, you'll be there. For once.
[ ] [Activity] Mysterious Magical Backyard Shenanigans, Round 2
As soon as the school day ends, you're heading straight home to commune with the sacred shed again. There's no way that golden blood and hammer-from-mind trick was the end of it. Your destiny is calling, and it sounds like creaky hinges and poorly stored power tools
[ ] [Activity] PHO Deep Dive: Cape Weirdness Rabbit Hole
You can't focus at school anyway, so you might as well go home and research gold blood, weird powers, and other cape trivia. You might not get real answers, but you'll definitely get weird forum drama and unhinged conspiracy theories. Worth it.
[ ] [Activity] Channel the Spirit of Academia (and Try Not to Die of Boredom)
Actually engage with your classes today. Weird, right? See if chemistry class makes more sense now that you bleed like an art piece. Maybe something about math or physics will click in a way it never has. Worst case scenario, you learn something useful. Best case? You weaponize algebra
[ ] [Activity] Notebook of Secrets, Vol. 1
Start documenting everything. Powers. Feelings. Hammer construction technique. Fluctuations in blood sparkle. Keep it all in a secret notebook labeled something misleading like Pre-Calc Homework. Start charting patterns. Don't trust your memory. Do trust highlighters.
[ ] [Activity] Social Link: Taylor Hebert (Rank ???)
Time to lean in. You've cracked the outer shell of the walking tragedy that is Taylor Hebert, now it's time to figure out if she's friend material, future bestie, or just someone who needs a little kindness. Sit with her at lunch, ask about her favorite book, maybe share a terrible meme. Build trust. Try not to explode from awkwardness or how weirdly intense her eyes are when she stares.
[ ] [Activity] Full Goblin Mode: Engage Maximum Petty
You've got a reputation now, time to use it. Find Emma's clique. Say something cutting. Knock a tray off a table. Make direct, prolonged eye contact like a feral animal in gym shoes. You're not looking for a fight exactly, but if one happens? Oops. It's bitch o'clock, and you're the hour hand.
You have achieved your second Feat, and have received your first mini-perk!
[ ] [Mini-perk] Aura of Presence I: Don't Mess With Madison
Something changed after the punch heard 'round the school. People feel it now when you walk in. Not fear exactly, but wariness. Authority. Maybe a little awe. Your body language and expressions now carry an unspoken warning: Do not test me. Social rolls against normies gain a passive edge.
[ ] [Mini-perk] Melee Wielding I: Warrior Instinct
You swing like someone who's held a weapon before. Blunt, sharp, polearm or even improvised, you now have basic combat instincts and technique with melee weapons. Still raw, still developing, but you've got the muscle memory of a rookie knight and the attitude of a feral gremlin.
[ ] [Mini-perk] Ferrokinesis I: Hands of Iron, Will of Gold
You've made a hammer with your mind. Why stop there? With time and focus, you can now mold and shape metal with your bare hands. It's slow, clumsy, and exhausting for now, but this is the foundation of something far greater. Your forge has been lit.
That night, you dream.
You dream of… pain.
Not the sharp sting of injury, but the deep, grinding ache that comes from the bruises of a hard day's work. The kind that settles into your bones. And the sting of a bruised ego, familiar, frustrating, and somehow worse.
"GET UP, MAGGOT!" a voice roars in your ear, raw and commanding.
"YES, SIR!" you shout back before you even think, the words automatic, your voice unfamiliar, and not quite your own.
You haul yourself off the hard-packed dirt of the training yard, spitting out grit and the metallic tang of blood. Every muscle screams. Your arms shake. Your ribs throb.
Across from you stands your opponent, taller, stronger, faster. Their stance is perfect. Their expression, dismissive.
No one here believes in you. Not really. They see a girl playing at being a knight. A joke.
They think you're weak because you're a woman. Because you don't look the part.
But you don't care. You live for this. For the fire in your lungs. For the weight of a sword in your hands. For the chance to protect the people who can't protect themselves.
You live to grow. To fight. To protect.
So you rise. You square your shoulders. You meet your opponent's eyes.
And you will prove them wrong.
Time passes strangely in the dream, slippery and stuttering, skipping like stones over a pond.
You see her. Yourself. Whatever this is.
Getting up. Over and over. Bleeding, bruised, limping, but always rising.
You watch as effort becomes skill. As stubbornness becomes precision. As pain becomes progress.
You see her get better. And better. And better still.
The murmurs fade. The jeers go quiet. The eyes that once dismissed her now follow her with respect.
And then, him.
The master-at-arms. The one who spat on your chances. Who said you were weak, that you'd break like glass.
He stands before you now, arms crossed, appraising.
And then, he smiles.
Not smug. Not patronizing. Proud.
Proud of your growth. Proud you proved him wrong.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the ache and the sweat and the bruises, you feel it.
You'll make him prouder still.
The world snaps into sudden, startling focus as you awake, crisp, sharp, like someone flipped the high-definition switch on your brain.
Yet you do not stir.
Not at first.
Then, slowly, with the weight of someone emerging from a decades-long slumber, you rise into a seated position. Your movements are deliberate. Poised. Dramatic, even. Your expression? One of uncharacteristic focus, like you just unlocked a hidden layer of reality.
You open your mouth.
"What the fuck?" you declare, seeming tasting the words like they contain an ancient profound truth.
Okay. Moving on from… whatever that was. A weirdly vivid, kind of awesome dream, sure, but still a dream. Probably.
You get up and start your morning routine, trying to focus on the day ahead. It's Tuesday, and that means round two of your very public war against Emma. You've got momentum, a reputation, and just enough delusional confidence to carry you forward.
But something feels off.
Not wrong exactly, just… off. Like your instincts are misfiring, your body running a half-second ahead of your brain.
You catch yourself mid-step and realize your stride keeps shifting. Sometimes you're walking like normal, then suddenly your posture stiffens, chin lifts, pace changes. Confident. Military. Like you're marching.
You try to brush it off, but now everything feels weirdly noticeable. The angle of your arms. The tension in your back. The sound your socks make against the floor.
You're hyper-aware of yourself. Hyper-aware of everything around you.
Like someone rewired your sense of space and forgot to tell you.
Is this a cape thing? This has to be a cape thing. You didn't know that being a cape came with suddenly knowing how to fight like you downloaded Combat 101 off a shady site and woke up with patch notes. You think it's a cape thing. Probably. Maybe.
…You could've just gone completely insane. That's always an option. Not a great one, but hey, you like to keep your options open.
You shove that mildly unsettling thought into the mental junk drawer and slam it shut. You've got bigger things to focus on, plans. You're a nerd, and now you punch good. Clearly, it's time to combine your powers for maximum effect.
You're going to make your own clique. One for nerds of all flavors, gaming nerds, PHO nerds, anime club weirdos, that kid who tried to turn chess into a blood sport, all of them. You will gather them under one banner. You will protect them from your mutual enemies, and in return, they shall name you their queen.
Or, more realistically, it'll be a "you scratch my back, I punch your bully" kind of deal. A bit of networking, a lot of charm, and some heavy-duty diplomacy to herd all the little social factions and fractured grade levels into one united front.
It's time to build a kingdom of your own. The Nerd Throne awaits.
Hopefully anyway.
You get to school early, like, before the hall monitors have finished their coffee early, buzzing with anticipation and righteous social ambition. Today, you build an empire. One nerd at a time.
You start with the debate club president, a tall, twitchy guy who adjusts his glasses like he's trying to phase through reality. You corner him by the lockers.
"I want in," you declare.
He blinks. "Into… what, exactly?"
"Into your hearts, your minds, and your Minecraft server. I'm Madison Clements, and I'm assembling a coalition. Nerds of Winslow, rise up."
He stares at you like you've just spoken Klingon. "You… want to protect us?"
"Yup," you say, popping the 'p' and flashing a grin. "I'm one of you. Always have been. I like video games, fanfics, and yelling at movie plot holes. I've read the forums. I know the pain."
He's clearly about to say something snarky until you lean in.
"And I punched Sophia Hess so hard she bounced."
His mouth snaps shut.
From there, it's like a domino effect. You hit up the anime club rep, a goth girl who raises one eyebrow and mutters, "Since when do you care about anything with subtitles?"
"I cosplayed Saber in sixth grade," you say. "Poorly. I've paid my dues."
You find the tabletop gaming crew in the cafeteria and give them a short speech on battlefield tactics and why Risk is the gateway drug to total global domination. You correctly identify three different obscure Warhammer factions, unprompted. You drop some quotes from classic campaigns, real ones, not just memes, and the Dungeon Master actually nods at you in solemn respect.
Word spreads quickly.
People are skeptical at first. After all, you're Madison Clements: cute, flouncy, popular-adjacent. You aren't supposed to care about magic cards or video game lore.
But then you talk the talk.
And, thanks to yesterday, everyone knows you also punch the punch.
Things start moving. Faster than you expected.
The Nerd Throne doesn't seem quite so far away.
Your day crawls along like a shopping trip in a D&D session. You're networking like it's your job, drifting between cliques, cracking jokes, promising protection, talking stats and lore and season rankings. It's like building a character sheet in real time, and you're min-maxing for charisma.
Taylor is still giving you those weird, sidelong looks. Every time you glance back, she whips her head away like she's been caught sneaking peeks at a forbidden tome. Cute, in a painfully shy, low Charisma build kind of way.
What's really throwing you off, though, is the lack of retaliation.
Emma and Sophia? Nowhere near you. No cutting remarks. No shadowing your path. No veiled threats or locker-related "accidents." They're avoiding you like you're contagious.
That's wrong. That's deeply suspicious.
By all logic, this is when they should be counterattacking. Unleashing the Mean Girl WMDs. Spinning up rumors like a PR firm on coke. Not letting you just walk around grabbing anime-tiddie scholars and deeply literal tabletop strategists like you're drafting for the Nerd Olympics.
You glance around. No traps. No sudden public callouts. No "coincidental" shoving.
It's quiet. Too quiet.
Still, the talking continues. The nerds keep nodding. The alliance grows.
Maybe today, just for today, talking is a free action.
You're smart enough to know that means the boss fight is coming soon.
Those worries cling to you like a debuff you can't shake, all the way until lunch. You're at your usual spot, but everything's different now. Taylor sits across from you, fidgeting with her lunch tray and refusing to make eye contact for more than two seconds at a time. Around you, the nerds you've been rallying are beginning to gather, but at a respectful distance, like you're some kind of volatile boss NPC that might trigger a cutscene if they get too close.
Taylor's quiet. You're quiet. She keeps glancing up at you, then back down at her food like she's afraid making eye contact might cause spontaneous combustion. You don't blame her. You were her bully. Now you're... what? Her bodyguard? Her weird golden-blooded ex-tormentor turned knight errant?
The silence is thick enough to choke on.
You wrack your brain for something, anything to say, but all your usual tools are useless. Charm? Guilt won't let you. Jokes? Risky. Flirting? Brain error. Reboot required.
Damn it.
If only this were the kind of problem you could just punch into submission.
But no, instead you're stuck stewing in awkward tension and unsaid apologies. You sigh, grab your tray, and get up to toss what's left of your lukewarm lunch, only to freeze mid-step.
A group of pawns, hanger-ons, sycophants, future cautionary tales, are slithering into the cafeteria. Two peel off and start pestering the nerds near your table, already puffing themselves up like discount enforcers. But three more go straight to Taylor.
You see it happen.
The jabs. The jeers. The sneering laughs. And then, one of them yanks her hair.
You see Taylor's face.
She's practically in tears.
And something inside you snaps.
The tray is already swinging as you charge. It smashes into Hair-Puller's face with a satisfying metallic clang, sending him sprawling to the floor like the poorly written side character he is. Before the others can react, you drive your elbow into the gut of the next one, and he crumples forward with a wheeze, like a dying accordion. You plant one foot on the bench, another on the table, rise like a storm given form, and punch the last idiot square in the face.
There's a crunch. A satisfying one.... Apparently dream training montages are useful after all.
The cafeteria goes dead silent.
Three assholes on the ground. One breathing hard. One groaning. One clutching his broken nose.
And you, standing tall on the lunch table, fists clenched, absolutely radiating fury.
The two remaining idiots take one look at your face, eyes blazing, jaw set, and bolt like their lives depend on it. Honestly, good instincts.
You turn, your glare locking onto a very specific table across the cafeteria. Emma and Sophia.
Emma's jaw is practically in freefall, her expression a perfect mix of what the fuck and did that really just happen? Her fingers twitch, like she's not sure whether to grab her phone or her tray and run.
Sophia, by contrast, is calm. Too calm. Her face is unreadable, lips pressed into a line, eyes narrow and assessing. She leans in and murmurs something low to Emma.
Emma straightens slightly, her spine stiffening, expression smoothing over with a veneer of false calm. The momentary panic is gone, tucked back behind a mask of smug disinterest, but you saw it. The fear. The uncertainty.
You don't slow. You march.
Emma's eyes flick back to you, like she's waiting for someone to say cut on this horror movie scene she's suddenly found herself in. Sophia watches your approach like a hunter watches an unknown animal, calculating, wary.
You stop just short of their table.
The air is thick enough to choke on.
"You'd best stop before I show you what my fucking fist tastes like. This is your first and last warning."
The words come out sharp as broken glass, your voice low and deadly serious.
Emma sputters, disbelief and outrage warring across her face. "You think you can just-"
But Sophia cuts her off with a single raised hand. "Okay."
Emma whirls on her like she's grown a second head. "Sophia-!"
Sophia doesn't look away from you. "No, Emma. Trust me on this. Little Madison is a Predator now."
Her tone is flat, almost admiring. Like she just identified a rare species in the wild and is quietly updating her internal power ranking list.
Emma goes quiet. Still tense, still visibly rattled, but her eyes… they flick to yours, wary now. Appraising. Like she's seeing you, really seeing you, for the first time in years. And she doesn't like what she sees one bit.
You're just… left there. Confused. Flat-footed. You'd expected a fight, a snide remark, something.
Not whatever that was.
Predator?
What the hell does that mean?
And why does it kinda feel like a slur?
"I-Okay then. Just so we're clear," you say, trying to hold on to your edge, but the way your voice wobbles at the end kind of ruins it.
You turn and start walking back to the lunch table, still mentally turning over Predator like it's some weird new Pokémon typing. You don't make it far.
Taylor intercepts you halfway there like a homing missile made of hugs and trauma. She crashes into you, arms locking tight around your torso, her face burying into your shirt.
You stagger slightly, more out of surprise than anything else, thank god for super strength, or you'd both be on the floor.
She's crying. Sniffling. Mumbling a mess of words that don't make it past your sternum. You can feel the dampness of her tears soaking into your clothes.
You blink, stunned.
People are watching.
You don't care.
"Taylor, I can't understand you," you murmur gently, voice low so only she hears.
She goes stiff in your arms, like your words snapped her out of whatever fugue she was lost in. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she pulls back. Her eyes are red, her face blotchy, and her hands fidget with the hem of her sleeves.
"I… It's just…" she struggles for words, gaze flicking down to the floor. "Do you mean it? Will you protect me?"
You freeze for a breath. It feels like the air around you stills too. This moment, it matters. More than anything else you've done so far.
"I will," you say simply. Firmly. A promise.
Her breath catches. Then the tears come again, harder this time, like a dam cracking wide open. She surges forward, wrapping her arms around you once more, desperate, but no longer unsure. This time, you hug her back without hesitation.
"Thank you," she sobs into your shoulder, voice raw. "Thank you so much… I've waited so long for someone, anyone, to care."
You hold her tighter.
"I don't think I could handle it if I was betrayed again…" she whispers.
You don't say anything.
But your arms tighten, just a little more, like you can somehow protect her from the world just by holding on.
"I'm so sorry," you whisper, the words falling out of you like a confession.
Taylor shakes her head slightly, her breath still shaky. "It's okay… just as long as it doesn't go back to how it was before."
"It won't," you say, voice steady this time. "I promise."
She doesn't answer, not with words. Instead, she leans into you again, head resting against your shoulder. You stay like that, quiet, still, long after the noise of the cafeteria returns to normal.
Lunch comes and goes, but neither of you move.
And when the bell rings, neither of you seem in any hurry to leave.
Your thoughts are a whirlwind for the rest of the day, even now as you lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. The fight. Emma. Sophia. And… Taylor.
It replays over and over in your mind, her tears, her voice, the way she clung to you like you were a lifeline. Like you mattered. Like she needed you.
And maybe, after everything, she does.
You don't think it ever really sank in before. Just how much you, Emma, and Sophia had damaged her. How deeply you'd hurt someone who never deserved it.
You fucked up. You fucked up so bad.
But now… now you're going to fix it.
You just hope you're not too late.
Now as long as nothing catastrophic happens there should be no more mega feels with Taylor. It's time for some fun socials, oh and managing your new clique.
[ ] Trial by Fire, AKA, Get Fucking Wrecked Trash
It's time to formally introduce yourself to your new subjects the only way you know how, by utterly destroying them in a hyper-competitive, single-elimination video game tournament. Trash talk will be encouraged. Snacks will be provided. Blood will be metaphorical. Probably. Taylor's been invited too. She has no idea what's about to happen.
[ ] Smash the Fash, Ruin a Dealer, Make it to 5th Period
A few of your nerds mention they've been getting hassled by the usual Winslow trash, Empire-88 skinhead wannabes, ABB punks, and one druggie who apparently called someone "anime girl" like it's an insult. Unacceptable. It's time to "escort" the idiots out of your kingdom. Violently, if need be. Maybe they'll even transfer schools. One can dream.
[ ] Project: Taylor Integration Begins
She keeps orbiting the group like a nervous satellite. You're not letting her float out there alone. Bring Taylor into the fold, sit her with you, assign her a "buddy," and make sure no one treats her like the former target she was. You're not just protecting her anymore. You're including her. Whether she likes it or not.
[ ] Cloak and Data: Nerd Recon Patrol
You've got nerds in every flavor, gamers, fanfic authors, miniatures painters, LARPers, tech tinkerers. Some of them have unsettling amounts of school gossip. You could use that. Set up a lowkey info network to sniff out hostile moves from rival cliques. It's not spying. It's… strategic nerdwatching, or something.
Now for your activity.
[ ] Casual Girlbonding: Embarrass Yourself For Friendship
Invite Taylor over. Show her your room full of anime figures, Diablo II strategy guides, and unfinished fanfics you will never admit to writing. Let her see the Real You™, the failgirl behind the smug grins and haymakers. Maybe even teach her to game a little (a lot). She's quiet, you're awkward, it might be perfect.
[ ] [Activity] PHO Deep Dive: Cape Weirdness Rabbit Hole
You can't focus at school anyway, so you might as well go home and research gold blood, weird powers, and other cape trivia. You might not get real answers, but you'll definitely get weird forum drama and unhinged conspiracy theories. Worth it.
[ ] [Activity] Channel the Spirit of Academia (and Try Not to Die of Boredom)
Actually engage with your classes today. Weird, right? See if chemistry class makes more sense now that you bleed like an art piece. Maybe something about math or physics will click in a way it never has. Worst case scenario, you learn something useful. Best case? You weaponize algebra
[ ] Forge Time: Becoming the Hammer Goblin You Were Meant to Be
You sealed a door and made a weapon out of scrap. That wasn't a fluke. Time to head back to your sacred backyard workshop, gather weird metal junk, and start experimenting. Can you bend it? Melt it? Shape it like clay? Accidentally create a sentient microwave? Only one way to find out. Safety goggles optional. Dramatic music mandatory.
[ ] Aura of Presence Training Arc (Staring Menacingly at the Mirror for Too Long)
You have the strength, the loyalty (maybe), the will… Now you just need the vibes. Practice in the mirror until your glare says "final boss energy" instead of "confused theater kid." Then field test your Aura™ in the most terrifying place imaginable: a high school hallway. Bonus points if someone drops their books and flees.
[ ] Reconnaissance and Regret: The Emma-Sophia Situation
Something doesn't add up. You humiliated them. They backed down. Sophia backed down. What the hell is a "predator," and why did Emma look like she'd just insulted Kaiser to his face when Sophia said that? Time to play spy. Lurk, listen, and maybe figure out what the hell game they're playing. Because you don't like not knowing the rules.
Side note, if this had taken any longer it would probably have taken until tomorrow to get done. Anyway I'm heading to bed and will only be awake for an hour at the most from this being posted, so just in case you don't see me to night, Good Night.
Oh and congrats on snagging Taylor, I suppose, your relationship is brittle at the moment, but she believes in you.