Chapter 8Victoria wanted a word with me.
The story Amy had given her, about us, was that she took pity on me after hearing about what I had gone through. It was how she explained her puffy eyes back at the hospital. She had been crying.
And in her infinite charity, she had decided to bestow upon me a magic eraser to all the insecurities that the Trio had heaped on me, because she was just that nice.
Victoria, obviously, had big misgivings about… that. But it was the most passionate that Amy had been about her work in a long time, and she wouldn't question it, even if the situation skeeved her out deep down.
But she did really want to talk to me.
I positioned myself to meet her on the way to the cafeteria. She gave me a wide grin and waved at me, cranking her aura slightly. Not on purpose, but she had wanted to make a good impression.
I funneled the feelings I got from the aura into a bunch of the people in my range that I had linked with, and suppressed my desire to punch the bitch in the face. The cheek to try and give me mental suggestions.
Come now, Taylor. It wasn't on purpose. She doesn't know.
"Heyya!" she said to me. "Remember me?"
"O-oh! You're Glory Girl," I said. A few passers-by heard me and winced.
"It's Victoria outside of costume," she reminded me, not the least bit ruffled in spite of the faux pas. "Or Vicky, for short. Do you wanna grab lunch together?"
"S-sure," I said. She turned on her heels and took the lead. We collected our food and she found us a table on the edge of the room.
She sensed my tension and turned around to give me disarming grin as we reached the table. "Ah, you don't have to worry or anything. I just wanted to have a chat with you is all."
"Cool!" I said. We sat down, and I purposefully shied away from meeting her eyes, putting on a bit of nervousness at meeting a cape.
Inwardly, I wondered if she, too, would one day give me trouble. She was a flier, too, after all. Purity had used that advantage to spot me before I could sense her.
Could I beat her?
With weapons? I could. Easily. A bullet to break her aura, and another to put her down. Or just kick the ever-loving shit out of her. I had Purity dead to rights with nothing but baseline telepathy and elbow grease. Glory Girl was actually even likelier to meet me in close quarters.
Right now, all she was thinking about was how to broach the topic of my closeness with her sister, and how to get to the bottom of her sister's turmoil.
I cleared my throat. "Your sister helped me," I began. "She… pretty much saved my life. I was paralyzed from waist down by the time I got to the hospital. Fractured my lower spine."
Victoria looked concerned. "Yeah, I heard. Do you mind if I ask…?"
"I used to go to Winslow," I confessed. "I was… getting bullied. It wasn't the first time they did something. Three weeks ago, right after Christmas break, they shoved me into a locker filled with used tampons that had marinated for the entirety of the break. My locker." I looked down at the food, and tried my best not to dwell on the episode. Or what had followed: nothing at all. Business as usual, and then… my ascent into Godhood.
Things had only begun to change after I had changed. That was evidence enough that this path of mine was right for me.
"And then last week…" Victoria said.
"They… I don't know," I shrugged. "Tried to kill me? Almost succeeded?"
'Around the same time, Shadow Stalker gets thrown into juvie.' According to her boyfriend Dean Stansfield, AKA Gallant, AKA fraud-cape who never even triggered. And Glory Girl didn't even know.
Of course, that had more to do with the fact that the organization in charge of handing out bottle-powers were also adamant that they be kept a secret.
Still… Dean made me want to do something drastic to him. Something reversible, and not too harmful to his surroundings, but nonetheless unforgettable. Just something to make up for the fact that he had no goddamned right. None.
After everything I went through to get powers… no.
The new world would have no class distinctions. We, the powered, would all be made equal by our pain. Even the ones that had bought their power. I'd make sure of it.
Soon. For now, that was so far down my list of priorities that it wasn't even funny. I had so much to build before I could focus on making things right like that.
'Was a Ward really involved in Taylor's bullying?' Victoria thought.
The hell was she going to do about that, anyway? She was just hungering for that tidbit of gossip. Drama queen. "I'd prefer not to talk about it," I said. "What happened, happened. The girls are apparently facing real consequences for once, and I'm out of there. I'd also prefer it if you didn't mention this to anyone."
Victoria's eyes widened. "Oh! O-of course. I can respect that."
I gave her a smile. "Thanks."
"I heard you joined the theatre club," Victoria said. "I'm glad to see things are working out for you here in Arcadia."
I smiled. "Yeah. It's fun here. And theatre's fun, too. The actress playing Sandy bowed out, and now I get to play her."
"Wait, again?" she asked. "The last Sandy apparently broke her leg. Now the understudy's gone, too?"
"They really didn't seem all that broken up about Gabby leaving. I don't think it's right, but I heard she's not coming back." I said.
"Huh. Really? Any ideas why?"
I grinned bashfully. "I… don't know. I shouldn't talk about it. But they were happy to have me instead."
Victoria raised an eyebrow. "Even though the play's only in three weeks?"
"I'm a big fan of Grease," I said. "Things sort of just worked out, I guess, for everyone involved. I already know all the lines, and I'm going to rehearse every day. I'm sure we'll pull it off. I'll do my best not to hold anyone back."
"Is that what Gabby did?" Victoria asked.
"I don't know," I muttered. "I hope she's okay. She seemed really broken up about it. She forgot her lines, and… kinda just gave up? I don't know, it was weird."
"Eh. It's theatre. Drama is the whole point. I'm sure she's fine. So you're playing Sandy now."
"Yup," I grinned.
"What'll you do if Gabby comes back for her role?"
I shrugged. "I'd just give it back, I guess. I don't really have a right to it."
Victoria's estimation of me went up a notch, exactly as I had predicted. She liked honest people. Well, everyone did. But she had a far lower tolerance for dishonesty. Which was ironic, considering the lengths she went to cover up her own 'mistakes' while in the line of duty.
Humans were deeply ironic creatures. No surprise, there.
"Also, question: the first Sandy, Ingrid, broke her leg, right? Why didn't Panacea just heal her?"
One of those questions that everyone that got to know Victoria would always ask: someone in school had x, y, or z. Why can't Panacea just fix it?
Victoria, for her part, kept patient as she explained the issue to me. "Because she's not Panacea while she's in school, either. Just like me. She's Amy. And she only heals people when it makes sense to do so."
It occurred to me that she would be a lot happier if she stopped going out of her way to heal people, and only did it to the people closest to her: family, friends, classmates. Home, school, and some other third space that she went to, to unwind or enrich herself. Her true schedule was far too skewed with work. School was another form of work, and the hospitals were even more taxing, emotionally.
"It was pretty late when she came to me," I noted.
"Yeah… she tends to do that." She narrowed her eyes at me. "You two seemed to really hit it off, though." 'Now tell me, what's your whole deal? Why does Amy get so… weird when it comes to you?'
"Do you… know what she did for me?" I asked her.
"Your… face?" she said.
"I'd prefer it if you kept that a secret, too," I said. "But… yeah. I guess I'm just really grateful to her. I don't know how I can repay her, but I want to."
"You shouldn't—I mean, that's understandable," Victoria began, "But really. Amy isn't doing this for repayment. If she did you a favor, you should just take it. No need to sweat on how to pay her back. She's a hero. It's what she does."
"You think it's weird, right?" I said glumly. "The face-thing?"
'Fuck, yeah?!' "No, of course not!" 'She's a victim of some insane levels of bullying. Attempted murder. I need to tone myself all the way down.' "And I swear on everything, I won't tell anyone about this either. And neither will Amy. And if anyone tries to give you trouble, and I mean any trouble at all, come to me and I'll sort them out. Every time. In fact, let me give you my number."
Kudos, my hero. I smiled brightly as she gave me her phone, and I copied the number down on mine. My list of contacts was becoming longer and longer. I already had ten people, and I was in a group chat with the other theatre kids.
And now I also had two heroes in my contact list.
The first one watched my chat with Victoria from afar: Amelia. She, and a bunch of the Wards, too, all of whom had a sneaking suspicion of who I was.
Once we finished our lunch, myself going back for seconds and thirds, Victoria and Amy rejoined, and they talked on their way to fifth period.
I listened in via my power while I headed to English literature, entertaining some chatter with a few of the theatre people in my year. Friends, in other words.
"I saw you talking to Taylor," Amelia said.
"Yeah," Victoria shrugged. "I just wanted to hear the story myself. It's… really heavy. I can't imagine how anyone could go through so much shit and still be able to smile. She's… she's fucking strong."
She was right about that. Many victims of trauma hated to hear such things, that their perseverance in the face of their past made them strong. After all, there was no other alternative. If living made you strong, then the word just lost all meaning.
I was strong for other reasons. Victoria's awkward praise didn't bother me.
"Yeah, I know," Amelia said.
"You know," Victoria said quietly. "You didn't hear this from me… but I'm almost one-hundred percent certain that one of her bullies was… the Ward that got kicked out."
'Shadow Stalker?' Amelia thought in shock. "You're joking."
"The timelines line up perfectly. Dean heard a bunch of stuff, too, from the grown-ups. And you know how you had mom check the court stuff? One of them… she seems like a likely candidate is all."
"First of all, that's racial profiling."
Victoria doubled down. "Race is a relevant visual detail. It comes up in every investigation. This can't have been a coincidence."
"What do you want me to do, Vicky?"
"Wh-what? Nothing. I'm just saying, it's kind of fucked up, right? Maybe it's why she got transferred to Arcadia right after? Maybe the PRT was pulling the strings."
'Oh my god, Vicky. I can't think about this right now. It doesn't matter at all. No, wait. It does. Does the PRT already have an eye on Taylor? Shit, shit, shit, I need to… we need to talk again. She still hasn't called me. I can't even text her.'
I did have to text her eventually.
And also figure out if the Protectorate were still observing me. They would suspect that I was a Brute, due to the nature of my second incident at Winslow. For that reason, stealth during my outings was the top priority.
And I should consider going back to old Nazi Joe's military surplus store to get me some urban camo instead of what I wore yesterday. Turns out, being a black, fast-moving smudge in an ocean of white snow and dark gray buildings made for the exact opposite of stealth.
Same outfit, different color scheme.
No big scores either. Just dozens of tiny ones. Slow and steady. This was a marathon, not a sprint.
000
In the dimly lit basement, I held my overpriced combat knife to my hand, intent on testing my durability and healing factor for the first time since I'd gotten my powers.
From my last outing, I had learned one thing: it was impossible to predict whether or not there would be an altercation. I just wasn't in control in the great outdoors. Therefore, I needed to always keep myself armed, and more importantly, know my limits.
I swiped the back of my hand with the knife. Nothing. Only the slightest feeling of pressure.
I started shearing, slicing up and down at one point. Nothing. No sudden sting of pain. I almost felt afraid to continue.
But I had to keep going until I opened up the skin.
At a certain point, I started pushing my full strength into each shear, planting my left hand flat on the ground while I did my best to slice through it like it was a piece of well-done meat.
No dice. None at all.
Then I started stabbing.
Harder, harder, harder—
Finally.
A tiny pinprick of pain. I lifted the knife. A bead of blood formed on the back of my hand, between two of my metacarpals, the ones connecting to the ring and middle finger.
I watched for a minute, waiting for the blood to pool and then overflow.
It didn't. It stopped at roughly… five millimeters in diameter? I smeared the blood away roughly with two fingers. I didn't even feel a sting of an open wound.
I squeezed around the point of the wound, to try and milk out a few more droplets of blood. Nothing.
Alright. That was the healing factor.
It wasn't enough. I needed to see how a real injury would react.
I kept stabbing, harder, harder, and even harder, overriding my common sense.
With a deep breath, I growled and STABBED—
The knife lodged almost half an inch into my flesh before stopping.
FUCK.
I mouthed every curse under the sun, unable to even breathe as I stared at the damage I had wrought.
I wrenched the knife out, and the blood came out spurting. Holy damn.
I unrolled a nearby roll of bandages and started wrapping my hand as I engaged a timer. While the timer went, I cleaned the floor of blood, using hydrogen peroxide and bleach, and waited.
Between each minute, I tried stretching my fingers out and curling them to gauge how far into the healing process I was.
It was almost unbearably painful to do so at the first minute.
At the second, I had gotten used to the pain enough to curl my fingers to my palm.
At the third minute, I could almost clench my fist. On the fifth, I could clench my fist. I rolled the bandage off and saw that the bleeding had stopped entirely. The wound was still there, a gaping canyon into my flesh.
But without the fear of having to clean up more blood, I just stared at it.
Millimeter by millimeter, from edge to edge, the wound sealed up. At the ten-minute mark, all that remained was a jagged, pink scar. Still some pain inside, but the injury had been isolated to inside the body. Maybe my healing factor was 'attacking' the wound from every direction now?
After two more minutes, there was no pain at all. I banged my fist on the ground. Nothing.
And the pink scar slowly faded as well.
Did this make me bullet-proof?
I looked at my weapon briefcase over at the corner.
I could deafen dad. But I had neighbors that would hear.
I could do this testing in the safe house, after I soundproofed it.
While my hypothesis was that I could potentially tank bullet fire, my policy would be to not get shot.
That seemed reasonable enough to me.
I looked myself in the mirror I had brought into the basement, at my new 'costume'. Everything was the same, only the cargo pants were dark gray and light gray camo. The sweater was gray, the cap, too. And just to be on the safe side, I had splurged on some shaded goggles for an additional layer of anonymity.
The splurging was necessary. Nazi Joe didn't have to remember me, but he did need to have his books in order, else he'd feel the need to investigate. He was something of a drinker, so he could tolerate forgetting people's faces. But dollars were far more important.
And I wasn't quite ready to bury him out back, either. He was a reliable vendor. I'd go after him once I truly hit my stride as a cape.
And now on my utility belt, I carried several weapons. A pair of collapsible batons, a combat knife, and a suppressed nine millimeter glock. I got all the practice from reading the minds and experiences of cops and enforcers. With the weapons, I now felt an attraction to the option of violence. This was exactly what I had meant to avoid on my first night. My self-awareness was well and good, but I truly had to be aware of one thing: the point wasn't to fight. Not right now, at least.
Violence would not be my first resort. Ideally, I would stay hidden for the entire night. But if something was to happen, I would be ready.
No one would send me packing in these streets ever again.
Chapter 8Victoria wanted a word with me.
The story Amy had given her, about us, was that she took pity on me after hearing about what I had gone through. It was how she explained her puffy eyes back at the hospital. She had been crying.
And in her infinite charity, she had decided to bestow upon me a magic eraser to all the insecurities that the Trio had heaped on me, because she was just that nice.
Victoria, obviously, had big misgivings about… that. But it was the most passionate that Amy had been about her work in a long time, and she wouldn't question it, even if the situation skeeved her out deep down.
But she did really want to talk to me.
I positioned myself to meet her on the way to the cafeteria. She gave me a wide grin and waved at me, cranking her aura slightly. Not on purpose, but she had wanted to make a good impression.
I funneled the feelings I got from the aura into a bunch of the people in my range that I had linked with, and suppressed my desire to punch the bitch in the face. The cheek to try and give me mental suggestions.
Come now, Taylor. It wasn't on purpose. She doesn't know.
"Heyya!" she said to me. "Remember me?"
"O-oh! You're Glory Girl," I said. A few passers-by heard me and winced.
"It's Victoria outside of costume," she reminded me, not the least bit ruffled in spite of the faux pas. "Or Vicky, for short. Do you wanna grab lunch together?"
"S-sure," I said. She turned on her heels and took the lead. We collected our food and she found us a table on the edge of the room.
She sensed my tension and turned around to give me disarming grin as we reached the table. "Ah, you don't have to worry or anything. I just wanted to have a chat with you is all."
"Cool!" I said. We sat down, and I purposefully shied away from meeting her eyes, putting on a bit of nervousness at meeting a cape.
Inwardly, I wondered if she, too, would one day give me trouble. She was a flier, too, after all. Purity had used that advantage to spot me before I could sense her.
Could I beat her?
With weapons? I could. Easily. A bullet to break her aura, and another to put her down. Or just kick the ever-loving shit out of her. I had Purity dead to rights with nothing but baseline telepathy and elbow grease. Glory Girl was actually even likelier to meet me in close quarters.
Right now, all she was thinking about was how to broach the topic of my closeness with her sister, and how to get to the bottom of her sister's turmoil.
I cleared my throat. "Your sister helped me," I began. "She… pretty much saved my life. I was paralyzed from waist down by the time I got to the hospital. Fractured my lower spine."
Victoria looked concerned. "Yeah, I heard. Do you mind if I ask…?"
"I used to go to Winslow," I confessed. "I was… getting bullied. It wasn't the first time they did something. Three weeks ago, right after Christmas break, they shoved me into a locker filled with used tampons that had marinated for the entirety of the break. My locker." I looked down at the food, and tried my best not to dwell on the episode. Or what had followed: nothing at all. Business as usual, and then… my ascent into Godhood.
Things had only begun to change after I had changed. That was evidence enough that this path of mine was right for me.
"And then last week…" Victoria said.
"They… I don't know," I shrugged. "Tried to kill me? Almost succeeded?"
'Around the same time, Shadow Stalker gets thrown into juvie.' According to her boyfriend Dean Stansfield, AKA Gallant, AKA fraud-cape who never even triggered. And Glory Girl didn't even know.
Of course, that had more to do with the fact that the organization in charge of handing out bottle-powers were also adamant that they be kept a secret.
Still… Dean made me want to do something drastic to him. Something reversible, and not too harmful to his surroundings, but nonetheless unforgettable. Just something to make up for the fact that he had no goddamned right. None.
After everything I went through to get powers… no.
The new world would have no class distinctions. We, the powered, would all be made equal by our pain. Even the ones that had bought their power. I'd make sure of it.
Soon. For now, that was so far down my list of priorities that it wasn't even funny. I had so much to build before I could focus on making things right like that.
'Was a Ward really involved in Taylor's bullying?' Victoria thought.
The hell was she going to do about that, anyway? She was just hungering for that tidbit of gossip. Drama queen. "I'd prefer not to talk about it," I said. "What happened, happened. The girls are apparently facing real consequences for once, and I'm out of there. I'd also prefer it if you didn't mention this to anyone."
Victoria's eyes widened. "Oh! O-of course. I can respect that."
I gave her a smile. "Thanks."
"I heard you joined the theatre club," Victoria said. "I'm glad to see things are working out for you here in Arcadia."
I smiled. "Yeah. It's fun here. And theatre's fun, too. The actress playing Sandy bowed out, and now I get to play her."
"Wait, again?" she asked. "The last Sandy apparently broke her leg. Now the understudy's gone, too?"
"They really didn't seem all that broken up about Gabby leaving. I don't think it's right, but I heard she's not coming back." I said.
"Huh. Really? Any ideas why?"
I grinned bashfully. "I… don't know. I shouldn't talk about it. But they were happy to have me instead."
Victoria raised an eyebrow. "Even though the play's only in three weeks?"
"I'm a big fan of Grease," I said. "Things sort of just worked out, I guess, for everyone involved. I already know all the lines, and I'm going to rehearse every day. I'm sure we'll pull it off. I'll do my best not to hold anyone back."
"Is that what Gabby did?" Victoria asked.
"I don't know," I muttered. "I hope she's okay. She seemed really broken up about it. She forgot her lines, and… kinda just gave up? I don't know, it was weird."
"Eh. It's theatre. Drama is the whole point. I'm sure she's fine. So you're playing Sandy now."
"Yup," I grinned.
"What'll you do if Gabby comes back for her role?"
I shrugged. "I'd just give it back, I guess. I don't really have a right to it."
Victoria's estimation of me went up a notch, exactly as I had predicted. She liked honest people. Well, everyone did. But she had a far lower tolerance for dishonesty. Which was ironic, considering the lengths she went to cover up her own 'mistakes' while in the line of duty.
Humans were deeply ironic creatures. No surprise, there.
"Also, question: the first Sandy, Ingrid, broke her leg, right? Why didn't Panacea just heal her?"
One of those questions that everyone that got to know Victoria would always ask: someone in school had x, y, or z. Why can't Panacea just fix it?
Victoria, for her part, kept patient as she explained the issue to me. "Because she's not Panacea while she's in school, either. Just like me. She's Amy. And she only heals people when it makes sense to do so."
It occurred to me that she would be a lot happier if she stopped going out of her way to heal people, and only did it to the people closest to her: family, friends, classmates. Home, school, and some other third space that she went to, to unwind or enrich herself. Her true schedule was far too skewed with work. School was another form of work, and the hospitals were even more taxing, emotionally.
"It was pretty late when she came to me," I noted.
"Yeah… she tends to do that." She narrowed her eyes at me. "You two seemed to really hit it off, though." 'Now tell me, what's your whole deal? Why does Amy get so… weird when it comes to you?'
"Do you… know what she did for me?" I asked her.
"Your… face?" she said.
"I'd prefer it if you kept that a secret, too," I said. "But… yeah. I guess I'm just really grateful to her. I don't know how I can repay her, but I want to."
"You shouldn't—I mean, that's understandable," Victoria began, "But really. Amy isn't doing this for repayment. If she did you a favor, you should just take it. No need to sweat on how to pay her back. She's a hero. It's what she does."
"You think it's weird, right?" I said glumly. "The face-thing?"
'Fuck, yeah?!' "No, of course not!" 'She's a victim of some insane levels of bullying. Attempted murder. I need to tone myself all the way down.' "And I swear on everything, I won't tell anyone about this either. And neither will Amy. And if anyone tries to give you trouble, and I mean any trouble at all, come to me and I'll sort them out. Every time. In fact, let me give you my number."
Kudos, my hero. I smiled brightly as she gave me her phone, and I copied the number down on mine. My list of contacts was becoming longer and longer. I already had ten people, and I was in a group chat with the other theatre kids.
And now I also had two heroes in my contact list.
The first one watched my chat with Victoria from afar: Amelia. She, and a bunch of the Wards, too, all of whom had a sneaking suspicion of who I was.
Once we finished our lunch, myself going back for seconds and thirds, Victoria and Amy rejoined, and they talked on their way to fifth period.
I listened in via my power while I headed to English literature, entertaining some chatter with a few of the theatre people in my year. Friends, in other words.
"I saw you talking to Taylor," Amelia said.
"Yeah," Victoria shrugged. "I just wanted to hear the story myself. It's… really heavy. I can't imagine how anyone could go through so much shit and still be able to smile. She's… she's fucking strong."
She was right about that. Many victims of trauma hated to hear such things, that their perseverance in the face of their past made them strong. After all, there was no other alternative. If living made you strong, then the word just lost all meaning.
I was strong for other reasons. Victoria's awkward praise didn't bother me.
"Yeah, I know," Amelia said.
"You know," Victoria said quietly. "You didn't hear this from me… but I'm almost one-hundred percent certain that one of her bullies was… the Ward that got kicked out."
'Shadow Stalker?' Amelia thought in shock. "You're joking."
"The timelines line up perfectly. Dean heard a bunch of stuff, too, from the grown-ups. And you know how you had mom check the court stuff? One of them… she seems like a likely candidate is all."
"First of all, that's racial profiling."
Victoria doubled down. "Race is a relevant visual detail. It comes up in every investigation. This can't have been a coincidence."
"What do you want me to do, Vicky?"
"Wh-what? Nothing. I'm just saying, it's kind of fucked up, right? Maybe it's why she got transferred to Arcadia right after? Maybe the PRT was pulling the strings."
'Oh my god, Vicky. I can't think about this right now. It doesn't matter at all. No, wait. It does. Does the PRT already have an eye on Taylor? Shit, shit, shit, I need to… we need to talk again. She still hasn't called me. I can't even text her.'
I did have to text her eventually.
And also figure out if the Protectorate were still observing me. They would suspect that I was a Brute, due to the nature of my second incident at Winslow. For that reason, stealth during my outings was the top priority.
And I should consider going back to old Nazi Joe's military surplus store to get me some urban camo instead of what I wore yesterday. Turns out, being a black, fast-moving smudge in an ocean of white snow and dark gray buildings made for the exact opposite of stealth.
Same outfit, different color scheme.
No big scores either. Just dozens of tiny ones. Slow and steady. This was a marathon, not a sprint.
000
In the dimly lit basement, I held my overpriced combat knife to my hand, intent on testing my durability and healing factor for the first time since I'd gotten my powers.
From my last outing, I had learned one thing: it was impossible to predict whether or not there would be an altercation. I just wasn't in control in the great outdoors. Therefore, I needed to always keep myself armed, and more importantly, know my limits.
I swiped the back of my hand with the knife. Nothing. Only the slightest feeling of pressure.
I started shearing, slicing up and down at one point. Nothing. No sudden sting of pain. I almost felt afraid to continue.
But I had to keep going until I opened up the skin.
At a certain point, I started pushing my full strength into each shear, planting my left hand flat on the ground while I did my best to slice through it like it was a piece of well-done meat.
No dice. None at all.
Then I started stabbing.
Harder, harder, harder—
Finally.
A tiny pinprick of pain. I lifted the knife. A bead of blood formed on the back of my hand, between two of my metacarpals, the ones connecting to the ring and middle finger.
I watched for a minute, waiting for the blood to pool and then overflow.
It didn't. It stopped at roughly… five millimeters in diameter? I smeared the blood away roughly with two fingers. I didn't even feel a sting of an open wound.
I squeezed around the point of the wound, to try and milk out a few more droplets of blood. Nothing.
Alright. That was the healing factor.
It wasn't enough. I needed to see how a real injury would react.
I kept stabbing, harder, harder, and even harder, overriding my common sense.
With a deep breath, I growled and STABBED—
The knife lodged almost half an inch into my flesh before stopping.
FUCK.
I mouthed every curse under the sun, unable to even breathe as I stared at the damage I had wrought.
I wrenched the knife out, and the blood came out spurting. Holy damn.
I unrolled a nearby roll of bandages and started wrapping my hand as I engaged a timer. While the timer went, I cleaned the floor of blood, using hydrogen peroxide and bleach, and waited.
Between each minute, I tried stretching my fingers out and curling them to gauge how far into the healing process I was.
It was almost unbearably painful to do so at the first minute.
At the second, I had gotten used to the pain enough to curl my fingers to my palm.
At the third minute, I could almost clench my fist. On the fifth, I could clench my fist. I rolled the bandage off and saw that the bleeding had stopped entirely. The wound was still there, a gaping canyon into my flesh.
But without the fear of having to clean up more blood, I just stared at it.
Millimeter by millimeter, from edge to edge, the wound sealed up. At the ten-minute mark, all that remained was a jagged, pink scar. Still some pain inside, but the injury had been isolated to inside the body. Maybe my healing factor was 'attacking' the wound from every direction now?
After two more minutes, there was no pain at all. I banged my fist on the ground. Nothing.
And the pink scar slowly faded as well.
Did this make me bullet-proof?
I looked at my weapon briefcase over at the corner.
I could deafen dad. But I had neighbors that would hear.
I could do this testing in the safe house, after I soundproofed it.
While my hypothesis was that I could potentially tank bullet fire, my policy would be to not get shot.
That seemed reasonable enough to me.
I looked myself in the mirror I had brought into the basement, at my new 'costume'. Everything was the same, only the cargo pants were dark gray and light gray camo. The sweater was gray, the cap, too. And just to be on the safe side, I had splurged on some shaded goggles for an additional layer of anonymity.
The splurging was necessary. Nazi Joe didn't have to remember me, but he did need to have his books in order, else he'd feel the need to investigate. He was something of a drinker, so he could tolerate forgetting people's faces. But dollars were far more important.
And I wasn't quite ready to bury him out back, either. He was a reliable vendor. I'd go after him once I truly hit my stride as a cape.
And now on my utility belt, I carried several weapons. A pair of collapsible batons, a combat knife, and a suppressed nine millimeter glock. I got all the practice from reading the minds and experiences of cops and enforcers. With the weapons, I now felt an attraction to the option of violence. This was exactly what I had meant to avoid on my first night. My self-awareness was well and good, but I truly had to be aware of one thing: the point wasn't to fight. Not right now, at least.
Violence would not be my first resort. Ideally, I would stay hidden for the entire night. But if something was to happen, I would be ready.
No one would send me packing in these streets ever again.
Chapter 11
This far into my physical development, I now weighed two-hundred and fifty pounds. This weight fluctuated between outings, and I could lose anywhere from five to ten pounds through physical exertion alone.
Thankfully, I no longer needed to eat the industrial quantities of food I had been consuming in the last two weeks. Just enormous portions, enough to drive the average person to the point of obesity over time. Well within human tolerances, however. That was good, because it made less people boggle their eyes when they looked at the size of my portions.
I only had two burger meals with a side of chicken nuggets. I was still slightly peckish, but I really did have to move on before I fell into a total bender.
Once done, I took a cab from there to downtown, and circled a block next to the Medhall building until—
Max Anders finally exited the building to meet an associate. The son of Allfather, head of the most powerful gang in the city, looked irritatingly handsome. He was well-groomed, well-dressed, and well-built. I knew for a fact that it drove Kayden insane. Her ego was so fragile that it could be manipulated at will by this douchebag ex-high school athlete whose only saving grace was a hit off the genetic lottery.
And then the power lottery.
And how did he trigger?
From watching his childhood family home get demolished by an uncaring father that wanted to sell the plot of land to some corporation or other. A rock had hit his face. A tiny pebble. He cried. He was thirteen.
Cry me a fucking river, Max.
Words couldn't describe how I felt. Only sounds. Like a stretched-out utterance of 'fuck' or a gnashing of the teeth.
I preferred the basketball foul way more.
Christ. Second-gen capes would be the death of me.
Boo-fucking-hoo, you yuppy piece of fucking shit. So what your father tore down your favorite house. Favorite house. I couldn't conceive of that idea, having a favorite house. What the hell did that even mean? Max knew. And he had been broken up about that loss enough for him to manifest powers.
My father worked his heart out every day for guys like him to run around doing board meetings, and setting up illicit drug trades.
Becoming the greatest providers of Fentanyl in the city. Fentanyl. This was where the leak began. With Max Anders.
He made human zombies out of people and made enough money to never have to work again, and yet he went out and did cape shit in the name of power.
Kayden had made things personal.
I just needed half an excuse to do the same with Max. Just half.
I approached him with wide, adoring eyes and put on the most convincing English accent I could. A posh accent, according to the mind I had lifted it off. High class and foreign. Maxie would enjoy it. "Ah, excuse me, sir! But do you happen to be Mr. Max Anders, CEO of Medhall Corporation?"
Max looked up at me and his eyes widened. First came the obligatory 'Pretty', and then the smile. "Yes, you're quite right."
"May I shake your hand, sir?" I reached out to him and nudged him. "I just wanted to say that I'm a fan of your work." He shook my hand. Link established. "Medhall's corporate structure was something of a project of mine in my first year. As far as pharmaceutical corporations go, your innovations are truly a sight to behold."
'And she knows her shit, too. Interesting.' "Ah, thank you, miss. I really do appreciate your kind words."
"I came all the way from Cambridge to explore the city, but I never thought I'd get to greet you in the flesh," I said.
"Cambridge?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Massachusets," I said. "Harvard." 'She goes to Harvard? She's almost too good to be true.' "I know it might seem rather awkward to hold you in such high regard. You're not even a celebrity." I giggled. "But somehow, I can't help but be a fan."
I went to work twisting him against Kayden, even harder than normal. I deleted his patience for her. The next time they had any contact, and she would reach out for help, he wouldn't provide it. She hadn't called him yet, apparently. But the pressure was mounting, I could tell. Max had already noted that she hadn't gone out capeing in far too long.
Now he'd decide that it was because she was useless.
"You're just tapped in with the business world is all," Max said. "Don't apologize for that. Passion is the most important thing in the world."
He was still holding my hand.
Maybe let go now, I nudged him.
'A little longer,' he salaciously thought, as he imagined what he'd do to me—oh god.
Just for that, I'd have him lose any and all sexual interest in his late ex-wife's wards, whom he had taken to having sex with in the past few years. Nessa and Jessica Biermann. I was happy to snip that pseudo-incestuous abomination at its roots.
It wasn't enough.
No, he and I… we had an appointment. I knew where he lived. I knew everything about him. We'd meet again. And I'd make him regret ever gently squeezing my hand again. Except I wouldn't, because he'd never know to regret it in the first place.
No, this was all for my sake.
Count your days, Max. You're fucked.
Now let go, you fucking—
"Heheh, thank you," I said.
He let go of my hand after three agonizingly long seconds more, in which he assumed that he had me in the bag. Now, all he had to do was reach into his inner jacket pocket, pull out his card, and hand it to me. "Tell you what: I'm always happy to give a budding student of business a tour through the company. Maybe even an internship if you play your cards right." He was telling the truth: that is if you replaced 'my cards' with 'his balls'.
"My word, how kind of you! Thank you so much, Mr. Anders!"
We split off from there. And I made him forget the last two minutes had ever happened.
I tossed the card in the trash and took a cab to my other stops.
Kayden's company. Not her company, but she did work there.
I shook hands with the manager, chatted a little, twisted her psychology against Kayden, and took my leave.
I went to Kayden's favorite drinking place, shook hands with as many people as possible, made them forget me, and then left.
They were all racists, so I did have my fun with them besides completing my objective, and subsequently erasing any memory of my presence.
But the gist was: the company would suspect her for being a probable racist and a Neo-Nazi sympathizer. The bar would think she had an affinity for black people after a rumor had spread that she was dating one. A rumor that they all implicitly believed in because Kayden was something of a degenerate in their eyes. A divorcee. Oh, the humanity.
I resisted going to Kayden's building to check on her. Not quite yet!
Sunday. I'd check up on her on Sunday. Three days from now.
Kayden Bowl.
I was so goddamned excited.
000
The plan was simple.
Overwhelming in its intensity, but nonetheless simple.
Lisa, driving the van, would pull up right beside the store. Bitch would open the back doors and release her half-grown dogs. They'd crash through the doors. Grue would exit, covering the street with smoke, giving Lisa, Bitch and Rachel cover to ransack the inside of the luxury goods store.
She exited the van and ran into the store with a duffel bag. Just as she did, she heard a scream. "HOLY FUCKING SHIT!" A feminine voice.
Shit. There weren't supposed to be anyone inside at this hour. Who the hell could it be?
Behind the counter she stood, penned in by three growling dogs the size of hippos. She was wearing urban camouflage, and had a utility belt with several weapons on each side: a knife, two collapsible batons, and a gun. She looked military. Or more like one of those military enthusiasts. They had a name, but she didn't bother to try and remember.
"Who the fuck are you?!" Bitch roared, already an inch away from turning this person into human hamburger meat.
"Who the—who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you!" she shouted back.
She reached for her gun. "Hey!" Tattletale barked. "Don't do anything stupid now. Just tell us who you are." She wracked her mind for likely candidates. Except if Miss Militia had a wayward daughter, Tattletale couldn't for the life of her—the Phantom Thief? "Are you the Phantom Thief?" She asked, waiting for her to answer so that she could proceed to use her power to analyze it.
"The Phantom what-now?" she asked. "No, I'm not a thief."
"Then what are you doing here, genius?"
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Riddle me that, bozo."
"We are thieves."
"Then go ahead and thieve all you want! Shit, leave me out of it! I'm just here to take some money off the register. Jeez," she said, doing exactly that.
She's not the Phantom Thief. She looks more like a Brute. Possibly a combat Thinker as well.
"Alright then, let's get to work," Tattletale shouted. "Bitch, keep an eye on her. Regent, bag everything."
She got to work opening and grabbing as many watches as she could. She didn't care if they'd get scuffed. They'd be easier to carry, at least. It added up in the end. She'd miss the cash in the register, but that was only about a thousand tops.
"Small world, huh?" the unknown cape said. "Who'd have thought we'd both be going after the same place?"
"You're doing a lot of thieving for someone who said they weren't a thief."
"You fuck one sheep," she groused. What?! "You know—the joke about the guy who built all that stuff, but nobody calls him a stuff-builder. But he fucked one sheep, and now that's what they all call him. Sheep fucker."
"Hah," Regent chuckled. "You're fucking crazy."
"But I'm not a thief. I'm a lot cooler than that."
"You're calling us uncool?" Regent asked.
"I just said I'm cooler," she said.
Then, gunshots.
The back door swung opened. Shit, she wasn't alone!
The girl broke a glass shard and hurled it at the intruder. It lodged deeply into his right shoulder. She easily jumped over the dog penning her in and kicked the intruder in the torso before wrenching his gun away. "Alright, let's vamoose, boys!" the unhinged cape shouted. There was only one boy in the store.
They all got the point.
"Bitch!" Tattletale shouted. "Call the dogs off, and let's go!"
Bitch whistled, and the dogs turned away from the cape to follow her out the store and into the dark street.
The cape followed after her. What the fuck was she thinking? She couldn't just come with.
Just as they were about to leave the store, someone else came from the backdoor, stepping over their unconscious fellow and aiming a gun at Lisa.
SHIT.
The unknown cape shoved Lisa out of the way, raised her left forearm, and the gun roared. The cape staggered backwards as her arm wrenched to the side. She pulled out her own gun and fired at the gunman, hitting the pistol. It flew out of the intruder's hand.
Lisa didn't think.
She dragged the girl with her, and shoved her into the van before getting into the driver's seat, herself.
"What the fuck? Who is this?!" Grue, Brian, shouted.
"She was hitting the same store. We caught her by surprise, but she helped us," Lisa said. "Saved my life."
"Fuck!" the cape shouted. "You catsuit-wearing—fuck! You made me break my rules! All three!"
She couldn't focus on this nonsense. They needed to get away. Brian was already flooding the streets with shadows, but they were still a ways away from being out of the woods.
"What rules?" Grue asked.
"Rule number one: Don't get shot. Number two: Aim not to get shot at all. And number three, for the love of God—"
"Don't get shot?" Grue completed.
"Oh, you are a smart one, huh?"
"Let me take a look at your arm."
"At least invite me to dinner, first."
Five blocks later, and Lisa finally slowed down.
"Alright," Lisa said. "Now spill. Who the fuck are you? Who do you work for?"
"Who the fuck am I? Well, I'm the goddamned bitch that saved your life, blondie, so maybe put a drizzle of respect in your tone before you bark at me."
"You're riding with us, no? And by the way, I am grateful. Thank you. Now tell us, what's your deal?"
"I'm a heroine," she said. "Following a lead on an Empire-related business. I wasn't actually going to steal the cash in the register. I wanted to crack the document safe open and get some proof that they were on the take, that business."
"You're… a hero?" Regent asked.
"Heroine," she explained. "And, yeah. An action heroine to be precise. Like Angelina Jolie in the movie Pepper."
"Or Lara Croft."
"Don't know who that is, but sure."
She was a hero?
"You thinking of joining up with the Protectorate?" Brian asked. "Or…"
"What? Hell, no. I don't do press tours or all that dumb crap. And I don't want a shiny costume. What part of 'action heroine' don't you get? I'm action girl! That's—that's my name," she giggled. "Action Girl. Came up with it at this exact moment, by the way. Points for creativity? I don't care. I love it."
Was she bleeding out or something? She sounded almost delirious. "How's the arm?" Lisa asked.
"It's alright. I got hard bones. Oh look, there it goes spitting out the bullet."
"Oh, that's gnarly," Regent said.
"You wanna see?"
"Yeah."
Brute. Regenerator.
"So," Brian said, sounding utterly confused. "You're not actually a hero."
"Of course, I am. Aren't we all heroes?"
"We're… not heroes," Brian said carefully.
"No, I mean, of our own stories. We're all heroes of those."
"You're not a hero—"
"She's not a hero—"
"That's not what we mean—"
The Undersiders talked over one another as the situation became clear.
"Listen, my point is, words are flexible," Action Girl said. "And they have power. You gotta reclaim 'em. Like how black people reclaimed the N-word." Alec snorted. "Or how queer people reclaimed queer. Which, you know, it's really funny we don't call that the Q-word, don't you think? Food for thought. Anyway, I just wanna steal the lunches of Nazis and fascists any time I can to cope with the fact that I had a series of very, very bad days that ended up netting me superpowers and mental issues. If you wanna put a label on that, go ahead. But I know what I am."
"Say that to a judge," Alec said.
"Wait," Lisa said. "What do you mean, that was an Empire-related business?"
Then all of a sudden, she jumped into the passenger seat next to Lisa, who almost swerved off the road. "Are you the leader of this band?" she asked, before taking off her mouth-scarf, revealing her lower face. A glass-cutting jaw, full lips, and clear skin, like she was wearing a full face of make-up. The picture became clearer as she watched her: she was a hopeless film addict. Maybe she was into theatre.
Not affiliated with any gangs. New cape. Still trying to orient herself.
"That'd be the guy in the motorcycle suit," Lisa said. "Grue, by the way. I'm Tattletale. The snarky one is Regent. And the girl with the dogs is—"
"Bitch, right?"
"Yeah, pretty much," Lisa replied. "The white-hats like to call her Hellhound, but she prefers Bitch."
"Wait, no shit? I was just teasing, since that was the only thing you called her. Bitch, huh? R-rated right out the gate. Love it."
Lisa turned to look at the girl's arm. "You mind showing me the wound?"
She pulled her sleeve back and showed her. It was already scabbing over. That was a relief, at least. "That your power?" Lisa asked.
"I'm Action Girl," she replied. "I pretty much have the powers of an Action Girl. Implausible degrees of strength, speed and durability. Good with guns and weapons. And I get these hunches that usually help me. Like… weaponized luck, I think. I say 'usually' because Action Girls do need to falter every now and then, or there's no tension in the story." That was how she understood her powers. A grab-bag that followed action movie rules. Interesting.
"What's your plan, Action Girl?"
"Like, in general?" She asked. She took off her cap and hummed. "Well, I'd say getting help and seeing a professional is at the end of my list of stuff I wanna do, because then things would just get boring. I don't know, girl. Maybe I just wanna kick ass and take names? What's your plan?"
"Make money," Lisa said.
"Nah, I think I'd rather just play cops and robbers," she said. "I wanna fight. Is that weird? Ugh, whatever. It's what I wanna do."
Lisa understood. This girl was in it for escapism. That wasn't rare. It was a shame that she was so reckless. She might not last with that attitude, 'implausible degrees' of skill notwithstanding. "Why did you save me, Action Girl?" She made a mental point of asking her to change the name before it stuck.
She lifted her goggles, giving Lisa a clear view of her full face. Really pretty. She winked at her and flashed a grin. "It's what heroes do, right?" She snapped the goggles back to her face. "Damn, that was a cool moment, when I saved you. It was perfect. I wish someone had recorded it. And this moment. I was cool just now, wasn't I?"
Lisa couldn't help but giggle. She was a goddamned lunatic. "Well, I wouldn't be a very smart cape if I didn't at least float you an offer to join us."
"And who are you?"
"The Undersiders," Lisa replied. "We're not very well-known at the moment, but that's on purpose. We just steal shit. Occasionally, we get into fights, but we're mostly in it for the money."
She hummed, tapping her chin. "Action Girl… in heists. Heist Girl? No, but these are like, literal smash and grabs. No sophistication or elaborate planning. Just in and out. No Oceans Eleven, just Reservoir Dogs. Come on." She then turned to Lisa. "Haven't you thought about shaking up your approach a little? Go for big, fat scores using massive amounts of planning?"
"Are you… always this disconnected from reality?"
"Pretty much," she said. Not a lie. "Life is a story, my young padawam. And the only way to live a worthy life is to make your story as exciting as possible. Yes, I would like to join your group."
"Tattletale," Grue said. "Action Girl, thank you for saving her, but this does require a group conversation before we make a decision."
"Let's take her," Alec said. "I'm sold. She's hilarious."
"No," Bitch growled. "I don't want the money to be split five ways."
"More people means more hands to hold more money," Action Girl said to Bitch. "And I can pull my weight."
"If you make me get less money, I'll sic my dogs on you," Bitch declared.
"But if I make you get more, I can pet them. It's a deal."
"What?! Who the—"
"I'll make you get so much more money, Bitch. And then I can pet the dogs."
Bitch growled. "Fine. It's a deal."
Then, she said nothing.
And Lisa's raging heartrate finally calmed down. Holy fucking shit, that was a close one.
She had almost foreseen Bitch siccing Brutus at Action Girl while she was still in the passenger seat.
Instead, she had acquiesced to Action Girl's deal. What the hell was that? A Master power?
Not a Master power. She's simply a good communicator. One of her hunches. Thinker power. Grants her an increase in her ability to manipulate social situations. Works particularly well on Bitch. Works on Bitch because her motivations are simpler.
Had she been using that power on Lisa?
"And when were you gonna tell us about your gift of gab?" Lisa prodded.
"Hm? How do you mean?" Is not aware of this ability. "I just say what's on my mind. Not my fault I'm so devilishly persuasive and hot. What are you, the hot-police? Get off my back."
She was prickly. Probably sensitive to rejection. Made sense with her type. Is highly enthusiastic about theatre. And acting. Also made perfect sense.
"And then there was one," she continued, looking over her shoulder. "Alright now. Give it to me straight, beefcake. What's it gotta take for you to warm up to my cutesy and unhinged act, enough to accept me into the fold where you could… get to know me better. We could go out for walks around the Boardwalk, grab coffee together, you'd open up about your life, while I opened up about mine. And then we could go out there and do cape stuff and have each other's backs, and… just you and me against the world." She grinned dreamily ahead. "You and me and our three backup singers, of course. Then one day, in the height of our careers, we can look back at all the good times together, and then make out passionately on a beach, the sun setting behind us."
"You should talk less," Bitch said.
She sobered up then and nodded. "Understood. Less is more. Thank you for the feedback." She didn't mean it, though. Only said it to keep herself in Bitch's good graces. Feels that Bitch values being taken seriously.
"So, Grue," Lisa said, suppressing her laughter. "Any response to… that?"
"I'm aware that nervous people make jokes to cut tension," Grue said. "If you're serious about joining us, Action Girl, then you should meet us some other day."
"Also, change your name," Lisa said.
"Hah! Never! Action Girl now and forever!"
000
The Undecideds. The Undie-sidies.
Undersiders. It was a name that was hard to take seriously. But they were a cute bunch. Especially Grue, who tried to pretend that my words didn't have an effect when they did. He thought I was cute!
I was eager to see where that would take me. Every good story needed a romantic sub-plot.
And what a fun story this was shaping up to be. Five teens versus the world, carving out their place in an otherwise hostile city, filled with capes and murders. We were like the Lost Boys in the island of Neverland.
Lisa was the brains. Grue kept the group in line with a healthy helping of authority. Alec kept things light and breezy. And Bitch brought in the hurt and edge. I liked the rapport Action Girl was developing with her, too. So fun that she was somehow an exception to Bitch's antisocial tendencies.
That was who Action Girl was. The exception. The heart. Every group needed a heart.
The theatre production in school was fun for what it was. Having everyone heap upon me non-stop praise and adulation would never stop being a worthy reward for me.
This production was far more stimulating, however.
I wondered what name to give this play.