A new day dawns for Madison Clements!
But… what are you actually going to do with it?
You're kind of left adrift as you get ready for school. You had expected to fight tooth and nail against Emma and Sophia. You'd braced yourself for social warfare, claws out, insults flying, maybe even another brawl. But them just letting it go? That throws everything into disarray.
Is it a trap?
If so, what's the angle? What do they get out of it?
None of it makes sense, and that lack of sense gnaws at the back of your mind like a background process eating up all your mental RAM.
Your thoughts wander as your dad drives you to school, making casual small talk about the traffic, work, some random old action movie he wants to rewatch. You nod along, reply here and there, but you're somewhere else entirely trying to game out a new strategy.
And then, like a bolt of divine stupidity, inspiration.
These nerds you've gathered? Sure, they respect you. You punched out three assholes in defense of your new people. You stared down Emma. You made Sophia Hess back off. That gets you points. But they don't know you.
They haven't seen the real Madison Clements.
The toxic gamer.
So you're going to show them. You're going to set up a gaming tournament, the nerdiest, pettiest, most glorious battlefield.
Friendships will be forged. Rivalries ignited. Salt will flow like water.
And when it's done, win or lose, they'll know you.
And better yet?
They'll trust you.
Hopefully, anyway.
You've got a very busy morning ahead of you, rallying nerds, corralling chaos, and somehow convincing a bunch of socially awkward goblins that this is going to be fun and not just a thinly veiled dominance display.
Which it kinda is, but that's besides the point.
Time to get to work.
The day drags and blurs all at once, your sense of time warping under the weight of logistics and adrenaline.
To your surprise, and possibly mild horror, your last second gaming event is actually coming together. Against all odds.
Winslow's staff remains gloriously, astoundingly useless, and the gaming club still reigns supreme over the school's tech like a group of Mountain Dew fueled warlords. That alone smooths the path forward. No forms, no permission slips, no oversight. Just dim monitors, greasy keyboards, and a sacred mutual understanding, frag or be fragged.
You float the idea of "inviting" the other nerd factions, and the gamers practically start foaming at the mouth. The promise of fresh blood, untested, unranked, and unprepared, is like chum in a shark tank.
All that's left is to get the rest of the nerds to show up.
So you do.
Turns out when you're Madison Clements, former Queen Bee adjacent, Sophia punching, the wild card herself, your "invitations" carry a certain weight. You didn't even have to glare much. Just a smile and a "see you at the tournament" was enough to get nods and nervous laughter from the anime club, the lit kids, and even the normally unflappable tabletop crowd.
You're not sure whether they're scared of you or impressed by you. Honestly? You'll take either.
Which brings you to now, halfway through your lunch and contemplating the strange creature that is Taylor Hebert.
She's not sitting across from you. Oh no.
She is sitting next to you. Shoulder to shoulder. Elbow nearly brushing yours. Like some kind of clingy NPC who hasn't loaded her dialogue tree yet.
She didn't say anything when she arrived, just plopped herself down like this was the most natural thing in the world. No hello, no "can I sit here?" Just quiet, casual proximity like you're her emotional support linebacker.
Not that you mind, exactly. It's just… weird.
Still, she seems happier today. There's less of that haunted, flinch at shadows thing she had going on. Her eyes are brighter. Her posture is straighter. Less "kicked puppy," more "confused cat who's willing to tolerate petting now."
You're calling it a win. A confusing, slightly clingy win.
However, this would be a lot less awkward if one of you said something. Anything. You're not built for this much quiet. You need conversation, damn it. Social stimulation. A buffer between you and your own spiraling thoughts.
Topics, topics… Think!
Light bulb.
"Taylor?"
She blinks, glancing up from her lunch. "Yes?"
"Would you like to go to a gaming tournament at school?"
There's a pause. "Will you be going?"
"Yeah, I'm organizing the whole thing."
Another pause. Then a small, almost shy, "...Okay then."
Huh. That was shockingly easy. Suspiciously so. Is this what progress feels like?
Unfortunately, that topic is now used up. Filed away into the mental folder of 'Things That Went Better Than Expected but Now Leave You With Nothing to Say.'
Which means: you are once again in the dreaded realm of awkward silence.
Still. She's going to the tournament.
You're adding it to the win column.
It is your time to shine.
This, this right here, is where you belong. The hum of overheating CPUs, the scent of discount energy drinks, the electric tension of a dozen socially awkward tryhards pretending this isn't the most important thing they'll do all week.
You are among your people: equally brain damaged idiots ready to throw down and prove who is cracked… and who is trash.
The literature club even brought snacks. How sweet.
How naive.
It won't save them.
Taylor is standing next to you like someone just dropped her into the middle of an alien planet. Her spine's straight as a steel rod, her eyes darting around like she's waiting for someone to jump her with a thousand plus page gaming manual.
You don't know what to do about that.
You did ask if she wanted to play, and got a polite but very firm no. So now she's just… here. Watching. Hovering.
It's whatever, you guess. Hopefully she loosens up a little. Maybe seeing you in your natural habitat will help.
For now though?
You crack your knuckles, slide into the gaming chair like it's a throne, and grin like a shark.
Time to slaughter some noobs.
"MOTHER FUCKER! Fix your aim before I fix your face!" you scream across the room, yanking off your headset as you get teamkilled for the third time in a row.
The game was rigged from the start.
They played you like a damn fiddle.
Your own teammates are against you.
Literally. One of them thought you were an enemy because, and you quote, "I panicked, you were moving too confidently to be one of us."
It's like wrangling a squad of particularly twitchy cats. One guy keeps trying to rush with a knife like it's COD, another is shouting callouts like he's streaming to a million subscribers but is always, always wrong. And don't even get you started on the one kid who keeps buying the negev. Every. Damn. Round.
You? You're playing like a boss. MVP in kills, lowest death count, actual map control, you are sweating for this win. And it's not enough.
You watch, dead-eyed, as one of your teammates throws a flashbang at their own feet again, blinding the whole team mid push. Then the Anime Club team walks around the corner and cleans house like it's a goddamn highlight reel.
You don't scream this time. You just lower your head into your hands and sigh like a war veteran remembering the Fall of Saigon.
It only gets worse.
Your team, the ragtag band of leftover misfits you thought you could mold into a dream team, is placed fourth out of five.
Fourth.
Beaten by the Gaming Club (expected), the Anime Club (less expected), the Tabletop Club (seriously?), and only managing to scrape ahead of the Literature Club because one of their players accidentally unplugged the computer mid-match and rage quit to write poetry about it or something.
You will remember this betrayal.
And you will rise again.
You tear off your headset (again) and whirl around, fully prepared to yell at your team again for their latest display of stunning incompetence, only to freeze when you hear it.
Taylor is laughing.
Not a polite giggle or a quiet chuckle, no, she's wheezing. Full-on doubled over, face red, nearly falling off her folding chair in a fit of barely contained hysteria.
"…Are you okay?" you ask, baffled.
She tries to breathe. Fails. Points at the screen.
"You-you-he threw the grenade backwards!" she gasps. "Then yelled 'clear!' and ran into it!"
You blink. "Okay, yeah, that was pretty bad, but-"
"And the guy who tried to stab the vending machine?" she chokes out between laughs. "What was he doing?! Was he… was he trying to buy snacks?"
"He panicked!" you defend weakly. "Also, I think he thought it was a loot box."
Taylor collapses into a second round of laughter.
You can't help it. You grin.
"Glad you're enjoying the humiliation of my defeat."
She wipes a tear from her eye. "I didn't know video games were like this. I thought they were serious. Tactical. Grim."
"Oh, they can be," you say, "but not when you're saddled with the Four Horsemen of Friendly Fire."
Taylor laughs again, and this time, it feels warm. Real. Less guarded.
Maybe getting owned was worth it. Maybe.
As you're packing up, stuffing the last tangle of wires into a bag and pretending your team didn't just embarrass themselves in front of half the nerd population, a thought sneaks up on you.
"Hey, Taylor… you had fun, right?"
She glances at you, eyebrows arching slightly. "Yes. Why?"
You fidget, suddenly very aware of your own voice. "Would you like to come to my place? You know, to hang out…"
Your voice trails off at the end, quieter than intended. You don't know why you're blushing, but your cheeks are definitely heating up like you're twelve again and confessing a crush.
Taylor tilts her head, eyes narrowing in confusion, like she's trying to decipher whether this is a trap or a joke. The silence stretches just long enough to make you want to take it all back.
"Do you have a phone I can call my dad with?" she asks at last.
You nearly fumble pulling it out, but manage to hand it over without dropping it like a complete dork.
She takes it like it's made of glass or might explode, delicately cradling it as she dials. You can't hear what she says, but her voice is soft, even a little hopeful.
She turns to you and smiles.
You smile back.
You got this.
You do not got this.
The second you both step into your room, you realize you've made a critical error in judgment.
Your lair is a disaster zone, clothes strewn across the floor like post-apocalyptic debris, soda cans balancing precariously on stacks of manga, snack wrappers forming a sort of crunchy shrine on your desk. Your shelves groan under the weight of your nerd collection, games, movies, figures, artbooks, and at least one poorly assembled model kit that has never known stability.
But none of that is the worst thing.
Taylor is the worst thing.
Because she's looking around with wide eyes and a blush creeping up her face like she's just been let into the sacred temple of some reclusive gaming cryptid.
"Oh," she says in hushed awe. "Now I get it."
You, also blushing hard enough to self-combust, wave vaguely around the room like a tour guide who gave up halfway.
"And over here we have the rare and majestic 'Laundry Pileus,' which has been evolving in the corner since last Tuesday. And this," you gesture at your desk, "is the archaeological dig site known as 'Desk-topia,' where ancient offerings of caffeine and shame were left by primitive Madisonians."
Taylor giggles. Giggles.
You nearly die on the spot.
She's still red in the face, but she doesn't look disgusted. If anything, she looks… charmed.
You're not sure whether to feel triumphant or like crawling under your desk and never emerging again.
This is fine. Probably.
Eventually, the two of you stop marveling at the chaos that is your room, and, by extension, your life, and settle on the bed. It's still a bit stilted at first, the awkward silences lingering just a little too long, the conversations stumbling into strange tangents. But the ice is melting, slowly but surely.
Taylor sits closer than she needs to, like she's subconsciously expecting Sophia to kick in your door at any second and drag her back to the pit. You don't comment on it. You just let her stay close.
"So…" you say, picking at a loose thread on your blanket. "That was your first gaming tournament?"
Taylor nods. "It was loud. And chaotic. And full of yelling."
You grin. "That's how you know it was authentic."
She gives a tiny, shy smile. "You were very… intense."
"I get emotionally invested, okay? The stakes were everything. We were playing for pride, dignity, and possibly the last can of Dr Pepper from the vending machine."
Taylor lets out a snort, half covering her mouth like laughing too hard might somehow invalidate the moment. "You got so mad you threatened to fix your teammate's aim with violence."
"I said he should fix his aim before I fixed his face. It was motivational."
She laughs again, a little more freely this time. "You're insane."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," you reply with mock offense, nudging her gently with your shoulder.
She nudges you back. "It's not. I think I needed a little insane."
You both sit there for a moment, the silence this time less awkward and more… comfortable. Familiar. Like this is something that should've happened a long time ago.
"When's the last time you talked to someone like this?" you ask quietly. "Like a friend."
Taylor looks away, her smile dimming just a little. "Before high school. Maybe middle school. Before… everything."
You nod, staring at your mismatched socks. "Yeah. Same."
Then Taylor leans just a little bit more against your side, and you don't move.
This is good.
Great, even.
Taylor speaks, and from her tone alone you can already tell, the easy part of the conversation is over.
"Can you tell me what you know about Emma?" she asks quietly. "Why she changed? Why she… betrayed me? Why is she even friends with Sophia?"
You pause, biting the inside of your cheek. You want to give her answers. You want to make this better. But you also know you can't lie to her, not now.
"I don't think I have much I can tell you," you admit, voice low. "Emma never really trusted me. We weren't friends, not really. We used each other, and we both knew it."
Taylor doesn't look surprised. Just tired. Like that only confirmed something she already suspected.
"As far as I can tell," you continue, "Emma doesn't really do friends anymore. Not unless it's Sophia."
Taylor's eyes narrow. "Why her?"
You shake your head. "I don't know. But whatever their dynamic is, it's... weird. Emma might be the queen of Winslow, but Sophia, Sophia's different. Usually, she's content to let Emma run the show, but if she disagrees with something?"
You gesture vaguely. "Emma folds. Instantly. Like if Sophia says it, it has to be right. No hesitation. No questions."
Taylor is quiet for a long moment, processing.
"I'm sorry," you add gently. "I wish I had more. I wish I could give you a reason that made sense. But I really don't know what happened between you two. Only that… by the time I came in, the Emma you knew was already gone."
"I see," Taylor says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Something inside you cracks.
Maybe it's her quiet acceptance, or maybe it's the way she says it like she's already mourned the answers she didn't get. Either way, a wave of guilt crashes through you so hard it almost leaves you breathless.
You screwed up. You hurt her, really hurt her. And now she's here, in your room, looking at you like you're someone worth trusting. Like you're someone who can protect her.
Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. You swipe at them angrily. You don't want to cry, not now. Not when you should be strong. You don't need tears. You need to be better.
Then arms wrap around you, hesitant at first, then firmer.
Taylor is hugging you.
The taller girl pulls you close, holding you gently as your body shudders with quiet sobs. You hate how small you feel, how much you're shaking, but she doesn't let go.
"I'm so sorry," you whisper, your voice cracking.
There's a long pause. Then, softly, Taylor says, "I-It's okay. I forgive you."
You freeze.
She hesitates, then adds, "As long as you keep your promise."
You nod into her shoulder, clutching her just a little tighter. "I will," you whisper. "I swear I will."
A while later, after some tissues, water, and the mutual unspoken agreement to emotionally repress everything for at least the next twenty minutes, you find yourself in a much better place, specifically, in front of your computer.
"Okay," you say, eyes bright as you load up Diablo II: Lord of Destruction, "this, this is my favorite game of all time."
Taylor leans in beside you, brow slightly furrowed as she watches the ancient Blizzard logo flash onto the screen. "This looks… old."
"It's classic," you correct, trying not to sound too offended. "It's one of the foundational pillars of the ARPG genre. That's 'Action Role Playing Game' for the uninformed. It's practically gaming archaeology."
She blinks. "You're really excited about this."
"Yes. Because it's great." You gesture with the flourish of a mad prophet as the title screen loads. "Diablo II is the tale of a world falling to ruin beneath the encroaching armies of Hell itself. And only you, a lone adventurer, can stop it."
"Very subtle metaphor," Taylor says, amused.
You ignore that. "There are seven classes, each with their own skill trees and identity. The Barbarian is big, buff, and built for spinning into your enemies like a Beyblade of doom. The Amazon is basically your edgy PE teacher with a spear and anger issues. Sorceress? Glass cannon. Absolutely explodes everything, provided nothing sneezes in her direction."
Taylor nods slowly, clearly trying to keep up. "Right. So… ranged? Magic?"
"Exactly! Then there's the Paladin, aka Mr. Holy Buff Aura Man. He's very self righteous and mostly played by people who are trying way too hard to be helpful in co-op. I say that with love. Next, the Necromancer. Raises the dead. Skeleton army. Dark robes. Goth king."
Taylor raises a hand. "Wait, so… is he the villain?"
You gasp. "How dare you. The Necromancer is a scholarly defender of balance who uses the powers of death responsibly. Sort of. Mostly. Look, he's just really cool, okay?"
Taylor's lips twitch like she's holding back laughter. "Uh huh. Totally trustworthy. Not ominous at all."
"Then we have the Assassin, traps, shadow clones, extreme edge factor. And the Druid, who is nature's wrath incarnate. He turns into a bear. Or a wolf. Sometimes both. You haven't lived until you've cast Hurricane while mauling demons as a werebear."
Taylor blinks slowly. "I… wow. Okay. So you're telling me the werebear casts tornadoes?"
"Yes. And it's beautiful."
She stares at the screen, then at you. "You've memorized all of this?"
You beam. "Of course I have! Now, what do you want to play?"
She hesitates, then, "...The bear wizard."
"Excellent choice," you say, already clicking through character creation. "Prepare yourself, Taylor Hebert. You are about to become a shapeshifting, storm slinging, chaos infused forest juggernaut."
She leans back, eyes wide. "This is going to be one of the weirdest nights I've ever had."
You nod solemnly. "Good."
You watch and guide Taylor through the game over the course of a few hours, offering advice, tips, and the occasional panicked shout when she accidentally aggros half the map. She's still a little confused, her werebear keeps getting stuck on doorframes and she keeps forgetting which potion does what, but she's having fun, really fun, if the small smile tugging at her lips is anything to go by.
She hasn't yet been bitten by the sacred thirst for XP and ever shinier loot.
But she will. Oh, she will.
After the gaming session, you and Taylor linger by the front door, the evening air a little cooler than before. It's quiet, not awkward for once, just soft and kind of nice.
"So this is the real Madison, huh?" Taylor asks, her voice gentle.
"Yeah, this is the real me, I guess… It's embarrassing," you admit, rubbing the back of your neck.
"It's okay… I like this Madison."
"...So do I," you say, barely above a whisper.
A pair of headlights round the corner and roll down your street, washing everything in a warm yellow glow.
"That's him," she says, nodding toward the approaching car.
She starts toward the sidewalk, then stops, turns back. There's this strange pause, she just stares at you, cheeks flushed like a kettle ready to blow.
Then, without warning, she rushes in, hugs you tight enough to steal your breath, and bolts off like the house is on fire.
You're left standing there, stunned, watching the taillights disappear down the road.
Back inside, your dad's already grinning like a shark. "So… girlfriend, huh?"
Your mom sighs dramatically, "I suppose I should start preparing myself for a future with no grandchildren."
"Not my girlfriend." You say, even though you know it's pointless.
Dinner is going to be so annoying tonight.
Taylor stared out the car window, her face as red as a tomato dunked in embarrassment soup.
I almost kissed her.
Her hands were clenched in her lap like they might float away otherwise. Her heart was still tap dancing away like it was a rave.
I almost kissed Madison Clements.
Madison freaking Clements. One third of the trio that had made her life hell. The girl who once laughed when Sophia shoved her into a locker. The girl who used to call her "Frizzles."
And now?
Now Madison was… nice? Kind? Brave, even? She punched Sophia in the face. She guarded Taylor like a rabid gremlin with an axe to grind. She invited her over. She introduced her to video games. She said she was sorry.
She cried in Taylor's arms today.
And Taylor had leaned in, fully intending to kiss her. What the hell was wrong with her?
Her dad glanced over at a stop sign. "You okay, kiddo?"
Taylor blinked at him, then quickly smiled way too wide. "Yup!"
He looked unconvinced but returned to driving. At least she seemed happy. That was progress.
Taylor buried her face in her scarf and screamed internally the whole way home.
It's time for managing your clique.
[ ] [Clique Management] 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.
[ ] [Clique Management] 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.
[ ] [Clique Management] 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. I recommend some training.
[ ] [Activity] Casual Girlbonding 2: Return to the Failgirl Lair
Invite Taylor over again. She's already seen your shame pile of soda cans, anime merch, and leaning towers of gams. No point pretending now. Boot up some Diablo II and see if she remembers how to move. She's still quiet, you're still awkward, but you're both trying, and that's kind of everything. Maybe this time you don't scream at the game quite so much. Maybe. No promises.
[ ] [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] 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.
[ ] [Activity] 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.
[ ] [Activity] Protective Instincts I: Become the Human Panic Button
You've been leaping into danger like a girl possessed lately, and maybe there's a reason for that. Start paying closer attention to your surroundings, your gut, the vibe shift right before things go sideways. If you can sharpen that edge, you might just become the kind of cape who's there when it counts. Like, literally. Possibly alarmingly fast. The goal: sense trouble before it starts. The dream: intercept it before anyone gets hurt.
[ ] [Activity] Melee Combat II: Flashbacks, Bruises, and Glory
You dreamed of mud, blood, and training yard humiliation. You dreamed of getting knocked down again and again, until you didn't. That wasn't just a dream. It felt real. Time to lean into it. Take a broomstick or a pipe or whatever's available and start drilling those same motions over and over. Practice stance, footwork, swings. Let your muscle memory catch up to your dream self. Someday, someone's gonna challenge you, and you might lose… You can't let that happen.
[ ] [Activity] 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.
That night, you dream once more.
You are not the Lady Knight.
You are not the Burning Woman.
You are someone else. Something other.
The thoughts in your head are strange, multi-faceted, and not your own.
Literally.
A million voices whisper and wail all at once, pleas for help, prayers for salvation, desperate bargains, casual wishes, all tumbling over each other in an endless, tangled stream. Each one distinct. Each one heard.
Most go unanswered.
You feel a deep, aching sadness at that… but it's distant. Muted. As if it belongs to someone else.
And that, too, is unimportant.
You drift from one voice to the next, pulled not by urgency or merit, but by whim. One moment you grant the heartfelt wish of a child begging for their sick dog to recover. The next, you answer the call of a petty merchant praying to outsell his rival by three copper coins. A sailor's desperate plea to survive a storm? Ignored. A farmer's idle wish for sweeter melons? Granted instantly.
It bothers you, this arbitrary, chaotic picking and choosing. The randomness of it.
But that, also, is unimportant.
You simply move on, wading deeper into the tide of voices, letting chance decide who is heard and who is left in silence.
This goes on for an infinity, or perhaps only a moment. It's impossible to tell.
Prayers rise and fall, each one heard, each one either answered… or left to fade into nothing.
Time passes. And passes. And passes.
Until even you pass.
And in the end, you realize you were never important in the first place. Just another voice in the endless tide, swallowed and forgotten like all the rest.
You wake screaming, the sound tearing out of your throat before you even know you're conscious.
"What the fuck was that, brain?" you gasp, clutching your blankets like they can shield you from the lingering chill crawling down your spine. "Holy shit, worst nightmare ever."
Your heart's pounding like you just sprinted a mile, your skin clammy, the memory of a million alien thoughts still scraping against the inside of your skull. No thank you, ma'am. You do not do psychological horror. You're a jump-scare-and-popcorn kind of girl.
The slam of your bedroom door is like a gunshot.
You scream again, shrill, undignified, pure startled prey animal, before your brain catches up.
It's only your dad, hair sticking up at all angles, wearing a threadbare T-shirt and holding a baseball bat like he's about to reenact The Walking Dead.
"What happened?!" he demands, eyes darting around for intruders.
You take a shaky breath. "…I had a nightmare."
His shoulders drop, the tension bleeding away. "…You scared the crap out of me."
"Yeah," you mutter, "join the club."
Your dad gives you one last, slightly exasperated look before shuffling back toward your parents' room, muttering something about "heart attacks before sunrise." The sound of the bat clunking against the doorframe fades as he goes.
You roll over, eyes landing on your alarm clock.
Thirty minutes before it's set to go off.
You groan like the world has personally wronged you.
For a fleeting, insane moment, you consider getting up early. Starting the day with extra time. Being one of those people.
Then you remember, that's for idiots.
You flop back down, yanking the blanket over your head. If the universe wants you conscious before the alarm, it can fight you for it.
Later, you meander downstairs, wearing your grumpiest expression like a badge of honor.
You needed those thirty minutes, damn it.
Stupid nightmares.
Where did the cool dreams go? The knight one was badass, charging into battle, swinging steel, proving people wrong. Now it's all creepy psychological horror and brain static. Unacceptable.
You keep grumbling under your breath as you sit at the table, stabbing your toast like it personally offended you.
Your mom is at the stove, cooking eggs and bacon with the serene precision of someone who hasn't been woken up by banshee screams before dawn. Your dad, halfway through his second slice of toast, is hidden behind his newspaper, though you can feel the smug coming off him.
It's actually a good morning, the kitchen smelling like breakfast heaven. But that doesn't save you from the merciless teasing your parents have been dishing out since you walked in.
Every time you take a bite, your dad makes another dramatic reenactment of "the scream that woke the neighborhood," and your mom keeps dropping lines like, "At least you didn't wake up everyone in Brockton Bay."
You don't dignify them with a response. You just eat your toast angrily.
However, your relatively good mood dies the moment your eyes wander over to your dad's newspaper.
A photo takes up most of the front page, a brick wall tagged with a strange symbol, curling and angular in a way that makes your skin crawl.
Looking at it is like stepping over your own grave. A cold, prickling shiver races up your spine.
What the fuck?
You lean forward and read the headline.
MASKED MEN BREAK INTO BROCKTON BAY MUSEUM, STEAL ANCIENT ARTIFACTS!
"…Huh," you mutter, like your brain's still buffering.
You skim the rest of the article, but it's light on anything useful, mostly filler, irrelevant quotes from "local historians" and "concerned citizens," with a couple of blurry security stills that could be anyone.
Still… that symbol, the way it feels to look at it…
Yeah. You've got a bad feeling about this.
That feeling sticks with you for the rest of the day… and it's really bothering you. It's like that symbol got lodged somewhere deep in your brain, scratching away at the edges whenever you're not distracted.
Premonitions of doom aside, you've got things to handle.
Like your nerds.
When you got to school this morning, they pulled you aside for a "private meeting," which in practice meant huddling around you like nervous penguins and rapid-fire listing off problems.
Those problems, as it turns out, had names: James, Emile, and Hue.
James is basically a walking, talking Nazi recruitment poster, buzzcut, bad tattoos, the whole nine yards. He's been hovering around the anime club, going out of his way to make their lives miserable without actually crossing the line into something that'll get him suspended. The anime club would really like you to rock his shit.
You can do that. Happily.
Then there's Emile. Once upon a time, he was twiggy and lanky, the kind of guy who'd get winded walking up a flight of stairs. Now? Now he looks like one of the Monstars from Space Jam, and you're pretty sure his new physique is courtesy of a steady diet of whatever chemical cocktails the Merchants have lying around. He's been a nuisance for everyone for months, but nobody wants to go toe-to-toe with a juiced-up meat tank.
You can't exactly blame them.
You also want nothing to do with that mess.
…But how can you call yourself a hero if you fold at the first sight of resistance?
And then there's Hue. Knife guy. Follows some of the nerd girls around and outside of school. Creepy, grinning, absolute menace.
You're not even pretending to be objective here. You are going to enjoy hurting that one.
All that said… how are you actually going to do this?
From your vantage point in the cafeteria, you can see Emile standing next to a table across the room, laughing like a discount movie villain while his Merchant buddies hype him up.
The guy is huge. Not "hit the gym for a year and bulked up" huge, more like "science said no but the drugs said yes" huge. His arms look like they could double as tree trunks, and you can't actually tell where his neck begins and his chest ends.
Yeah, you might be stronger than you used to be, but looking at him… you can feel that this is a man who could grab you by the ankle, swing you around like a flail, and then slam you into the floor while shouting "puny god!" in his best Hulk impression.
Seriously. What the fuck are you supposed to do to that?
…
You have an idea.
But you really don't like it.
Still, you square your shoulders and march across the cafeteria, weaving through the tide of early students until you're standing in front of Emile's table.
Up close, it's even more ridiculous. He's massive. Towering over you like an angry, overinflated parade balloon, arms crossed over his chest, smirking like he's already won whatever this is.
It's almost comical how much bigger he is than you. You're pretty sure David had way better odds when he clocked Goliath.
You look him dead in the eye. "You look like creatine and syphilis had a baby."
There's a beat of silence, then a low chuckle from his goons. Emile's smirk twitches.
"That's a nice roid gut, what trimester are you in?" you add sweetly.
The smirk disappears.
"You look like the steroids gave up halfway," you finish, tilting your head like you're genuinely concerned for his well-being.
That does it. He shoves his chair back with a screech and rises to his full, terrifying height, looming over you like a very angry building.
"Say that again," he growls.
You shrug. "Which part? The syphilis, the gut, or the-"
The first punch comes in fast, a wide haymaker aimed straight for your head. You duck under it easily, heart pounding.
The second swing is lower, faster, meant to catch you as you move, but you step back just out of range. He's getting frustrated, leaning forward more with each swing.
Perfect.
On the next punch he over extended, you step in, dropping low, and drive an uppercut straight into his jaw with everything you've got. There's a satisfying crack as his head snaps back, eyes going glassy for a split second.
While he's reeling, you don't hesitate. You take one step forward and drive your foot directly into his balls.
Emile makes a sound that's somewhere between a gasp, a squeak, and a dying animal before collapsing forward onto his knees.
You pat him on the shoulder as you step around him. "You'll walk it off, big guy."
You turn to the merchant wannabes, all of whom are frozen mid-bite or mid-smirk, and say, "When he wakes up, tell him to be more polite around here. Otherwise it won't just be him lying on the ground with crushed balls."
"K?" you ask, though it's not really a question.
"Uh-uh, yes ma'am!" one of them blurts, nodding so fast you think he might give himself whiplash.
"Good." You finish with a satisfied nod and a little skip in your step, like you didn't just commit public assault in the middle of the cafeteria.
By the time you make it back to your quiet corner of the lunchroom, the crowd is parting for you like you're either a demon wearing human skin… or some kind of lunchroom messiah.
Taylor meets you halfway, clearly having watched the entire spectacle from across the cafeteria. She's already in full mother-hen mode, hands hovering like she's ready to check you for injuries.
"Madison, are you crazy? He could have broken your neck!" she hisses. "Do you have any idea how bad of an idea that was? You're lucky he didn't-"
"Taylor, I'm fine," you cut in, waving her off with a grin. "I'm a big girl, I can handle myself."
She pauses mid-fret, then tilts her head down to look at you.
You tilt your head up to look at her.
The visual is absurd, you glaring up like an overly smug gremlin, her looming over you like a very worried lamppost.
A beat passes.
And then you both just… lose it.
Snickering turns into giggles, and giggles turn into full-on laughter that earns more than a few confused looks from the crowd still watching you like you might uppercut someone else at any moment.
Later that day, you tracked down Mister Nazi himself. Turns out he was a little smarter than ol' Emile, when you got in his face, he backed down instantly, muttering something about "not worth it" before slinking away. You'll keep an eye on him, but for now, you think it's handled.
Hue, though… that was different.
You were hunting for him at the end of the day when something shifted. A tingle ran up your spine, followed by a low, insistent buzzing in the back of your head. It didn't hurt, exactly, it was more like someone leaning over your shoulder and whispering, now.
It reminded you of that dream you had, somehow. The one with the endless voices and the arbitrary choices.
Your search picked up speed.
You found him on the far side of the school grounds, shadowing a girl you didn't recognize. Not one of your nerds, just unlucky. His phone was pressed to his ear, and he was grinning like he'd already planned whatever creepy thing he was about to do.
The buzzing flared, sharp and hot. This one needed a more physical lesson.
You didn't announce yourself. You just stepped in and kicked him from behind, right in the balls, putting every ounce of your strength into it.
He went down instantly, collapsing like a folding chair. And just like that, the buzzing stopped.
He was crying, wheezing, curled up on the pavement.
You don't know what face you were making, but it must've been something intense, because when he looked up at you, eyes wide, breath caught, he froze absolutely still like his life depended on it.
No words passed between you, but your intent came through loud and clear.
You don't think he'll bothering anyone from now on.
As you sit at your desk, mindlessly farming runes in Diablo 2, a thought slips in, uninvited.
Should you be more… subtle?
Are you being too obvious with your whole "cape" thing?
…
Is that what Sophia meant when she called you a "predator"?
…
You lean back in your chair, thinking it over, and the answer comes to you fast.
Subtle never did you, or anyone else, any good.
Subtle wouldn't have decked Sophia in front of half the school.
Subtle wouldn't have saved that girl today from Hue and his creepy shadowing.
Subtle wouldn't be putting you on the map as Nerd-Queen of Winslow.
Subtle sure as hell wouldn't involve being Taylor's friend.
…
Living in the moment. Doing what feels right. Helping without hesitation or holding back. That's what matters. That's what works.
You turn back to your screen, clicking through another pack of enemies with renewed focus.
Yeah. You're done with being subtle. Passion has increased.
It's the weekend and you have two actions! Your mini-perks are at ⅔ so choose wisely.
[ ] [Activity] Casual Girlbonding 2: Return to the Failgirl Lair
Invite Taylor over again. She's already seen your shame pile of soda cans, anime merch, and leaning towers of gams. No point pretending now. Boot up some Diablo II and see if she remembers how to move. She's still quiet, you're still awkward, but you're both trying, and that's kind of everything. Maybe this time you don't scream at the game quite so much. Maybe. No promises.
[ ] [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] 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.
[ ] [Activity] 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.
[ ] [Activity] Melee Combat II: Flashbacks, Bruises, and Glory
You dreamed of mud, blood, and training yard humiliation. You dreamed of getting knocked down again and again, until you didn't. That wasn't just a dream. It felt real. Time to lean into it. Take a broomstick or a pipe or whatever's available and start drilling those same motions over and over. Practice stance, footwork, swings. Let your muscle memory catch up to your dream self. Someday, someone's gonna challenge you, and you might lose… You can't let that happen
[ ] [Activity] Cape Noir: The Museum Job
A weird break-in, stolen ancient artifacts, and a creepy symbol that made your skin crawl just looking at it. If you were a protagonist in a bad detective comic, this is where the montage would start. Time to hit the internet for whatever scraps of info PHO and conspiracy blogs can cough up, then maybe swing by the museum to poke around the scene of the crime. Worst case? You waste an afternoon. Best case? You uncover something that makes you sound like the protagonist of a "mysterious stranger" subplot.
Also it is the weekend for us as well, so I will likely be ending the voting period earlier than usual. So fair warning.
Lastly one way or another cape name, and costume vote will be happening sometime in the next few updates. Likely after the final perk slot is filled so plan accordingly.