Vista turned towards Taylor, and shrugged. "No one was really broken up about it. She was kind of a bitch."
Taylor filed that little tidbit away for later, and tried to move to a less volatile subject. "So, you were talking about the city."
"Right." Vista turned on her heel, and they continued their patrol. "Like I said, the city is crazy. You need to be prepared for anything." Her eyes glanced over Taylor's armor. "The Wards aren't really meant to do much fighting, but the Protectorate is so pressed here, that we see action every now and then. With that armor, you're probably good to handle unpowered thugs with no real problem."
They came to a stop again, and Vista tapped Taylor's breastplate. "Once you get used to getting shot at, a couple assholes with guns are pretty much fodder. It's other capes that you need to watch out for. Fancy as your armor is, you can't rely on it against capes. There are all kinds of weird powers, so never just stand there and let yourself get hit. That'll only end poorly."
"I, uh, wasn't planning on it," Taylor said, shifting uncomfortably. Why was a twelve-year old used to getting shot at? "Do people actually do that?"
Vista raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Stand there and get hit," Taylor clarified.
Vista snorted. "Aegis used to. Our former fearless leader has an adaptive biology. Basically, he can take almost any hit without dying. He took his name very literally, back then. He would throw himself into the fray like an idiot and come out of it looking like raw hamburger." She puffed up a bit. "Training him out of that was the first thing that I did."
"Oh," Taylor replied weakly, trying not to visualize that image. She could practically see him, great gashes along his skin, bits of meat scooped out where bullets entered, a tattered costume, no way to know where the red fabric ended and the blood began.
She shivered.
"Yeah, it's messed up," Vista agreed, seemingly reading her mind. The hero looked around. "But, that's our city. I'm honestly surprised we haven't run into anything yet."
The sound gunfire echoed through the dream, and Vista perked up.
"Speak of the devil," she exclaimed, grabbing Taylor by the wrist. She dragged Taylor towards the noise, crossing entire blocks with each step.
Taylor did her best to keep up, flailing her free arm to stay balanced as the world bent around her. She would've fallen a dozen times by now had this not been a dream.
They stopped on a roof, overlooking a parking lot. Below, over a dozen men in gang colors fired at each other. The individuals making up each group looked almost identical, with one side seeming vaguely Asian, and the other clearly white. Guns fired non-stop, making more noise than anything Taylor had heard before, but no bodies fell. If she squinted, she could make out a vague distortion in the air between the gangs. Vista's power, presumably.
Vista raised a hand to her ear. "Console, we've got a fight between ABB and E88 members, downtown. No capes in sight. Permission to engage."
Taylor twitched at that. This was not her dream, filled with blurry outlines of people, smashed effortlessly aside. These men were formed from Vista's memories. They felt real, and were accompanied by the appropriate emotions. Was this really what Wards did?
"Permission granted," came Gallant's sultry voice. "Have at 'em sweetheart, but be careful."
Vista smiled, and swept her arms outward. The space surrounding the parking lot blurred, twisting into fractals, and forming a shell. Light shifted unreliably throughout the structure, refracting in ways that were decidedly unnatural. The inside was every bit as confusing, with Vista's power turning the parking lot into a house of mirrors.
"And, done," she announced, happily.
Taylor blinked. "That's it?"
"They're trapped," Vista explained, gesturing needlessly. "Now, we just wait for the police to arrive... or you could go in there."
Taylor stared at the non-Euclidean nightmare in front of her. "Go in there?" she asked incredulously.
"I'll smooth it out for you, obviously," Vista chided. "I'm just saying, you need the experience. Best to get a few fights in against these mooks, while you know I'm watching your back."
"Uh huh," Taylor replied absently, still eyeing Vista's creation.
"Oh come on, it's not that bad!" Vista pouted. "Here, look."
Taylor yelped, as the parking lot suddenly became much closer. Inside, she could see faceless gang members roaming about, walking in circles and raging incoherently.
"I'll send them to you one at a time, so you don't get overwhelmed," Vista explained, unperturbed. "Your armor can take a bullet, but I'll bend them away from you just in case."
Taylor hesitated. Why was she so anxious?
"Look, I just think it's better for you to get used to stuff like this," Vista reassured her. "This is as close to a safe environment as we can get."
"Are we even allowed to do this?" Taylor asked to buy some time.
Vista frowned. "...Not specifically, no. The Protectorate prefers to pretend that Wards don't ever get into life-threatening situations, and acts accordingly. I just happen to know better."
The blandness of her tone struck Taylor as tremendously sad. If a girl three years her junior could handle this in reality, Taylor could certainly handle a dream. She nodded to the hero, and stepped into the dome of Vista's power.
Immediately, things became less chaotic. Instead of a sea of mirrors, Taylor could see individual gang members, locked away in their own little space cages. She stood in the center of the parking lot, a makeshift arena, and a single man was dropped at the opposite end. He glanced around in confusion, and his eyes fell on Taylor. Almost immediately, his gun snapped up, and the roar nearly deafened Taylor.
She flinched, more out of shock than any real fear, and took an unsteady step back. No bullets came her way, however. Slight distortions in the air spiraled away from the gun barrel, sending bullets skyward or into the dirt. The man snarled, emptying his magazine in Taylor's general direction, then tossed the gun aside. He charged her, lumbering at a pace that gave Taylor just enough time to think about her response.
This is not real.
She fought back the fear, pushed that foreign feeling away, back into the dream where it belonged.
This is not real.
This was her domain. There was nothing that could hurt her.
This is not real.
She stepped forward, meeting the man's charge. He moved like molasses, now, and Taylor easily ducked his blow. Her own arm snapped up, a vicious uppercut catching the man in the chin at superhuman speeds.
His head popped like a balloon. A fountain of blood erupted from his body, drenching Taylor. She stared, aghast, at the corpse, every part of her screaming.
This is not real this is not real thisisnotreal
THE DREAM CRACKED
Taylor closed her eyes, forcing away the sound of Vista's worried shouting, forcing away the smell of blood, the feeling of not water on her skin.
Notrealnotrealnotreal
This was not her memory. She had never seen a man die. She had barely even seen blood before. This was not real. It had no hold on her.
She let out a shaky breath as her skin dried, as the noise faded, as the cracks reformed. Taylor opened her eyes, and an unconscious man lay in front of her. Vista's voice tickled at her ear, frantically begging her to respond.
"Vista." Taylor barely managed to keep her voice even. "I'd like to go now, please."
The world warped around her, and Taylor found herself outside the dome. A moment later, she was wrapped in a hug.
"I'm sorry!" Vista exclaimed. "I had no idea you'd take that so badly! You just started screaming, and I froze! I should've gone in there with you—"
"It's okay," Taylor interrupted dully, still processing what she'd seen. That memory did not belong to her, nor was her imagination that bloody.
"It's not okay," Vista insisted, stomping her feet in anger. "I don't know what I was thinking, sending you in there. It seemed like a neat idea, but I've never tried it before. I should have run it by someone first. That was just, that was dumb of me. I'm sorry, Armada, really."
"You were trying to protect me," Taylor replied, her thoughts slowly coming back into focus. "You wanted to be sure I wouldn't freeze if I got into a life threatening situation."
"I should've come up with a better way." Vista hugged her tighter. "We shouldn't have done that on your first patrol." At some point, she'd forgotten that Armsmaster had supposedly recruited Taylor. Was that Taylor's influence, or the natural confusion of the dreaming world? Taylor couldn't be certain.
She managed to extract herself from Vista's arms. "Maybe not, but I don't blame you." Vista was a product of her experiences. Her violent, bloody experiences. Did the Protectorate know what kind of things she'd seen? Had she spoken to anybody about them?
"I'll make it up to you," Vista insisted. "We'll figure out some kind of safer training method."
She just wanted her friends to be safe. That thought echoed around Taylor, clear as a bell. It was the underlying reason for Vista's anger, her insecurity. People saw her age, and assumed she couldn't understand the darker parts of human nature. They saw her as a child, to be protected, to be sheltered, hidden away from the world.
But, she could help. She could contribute. Her ideas weren't perfect, but she couldn't learn until she tested them. She couldn't progress, not as a hero or a person, until she was seen as old enough.
She would be denied for years yet to come.
Taylor looked at her. Really looked. She looked past the older facade, past the grizzled teenager, past the respected hero. She saw into the girl who just wanted to be treated like an equal. She saw someone who felt disregarded by superiors, discarded by her peers. She saw someone desperate for a real friend.
Taylor saw reflections of herself, swimming within this girl.
She smiled.
"I know how you can make it up to me," Taylor told her friend.
"Ask me anything," Vista stated solemnly, placing her hands over Taylor's shoulders.
A quiet buzzing crept into the dream.
"Meet me at the Boardwalk, by the South entrance." Taylor's eyes flicked to the sky, and the buzzing noise increased.
"When?" Vista had to shout to be heard above the buzzing. The noise seemed familiar, somehow.
Taylor laughed. "When you wake up."
The buzzing was relentless now. The noise consumed everything. The world splintered, ripping itself into fragmented images, as Vista's alarm drilled its way through her subconscious, and into her waking mind.
Missy opened her eyes.
Author Notes:
Not much to say, really. Having fun writing Missy. Anything not canon compliant, assume is AU.
As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.
Hope you enjoyed it.Last edited: May 26, 2018427McSwazeyMay 26, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 6 View contentMcSwazeyJun 3, 2018#212Missy stared at the ceiling of her room, her mind sluggishly coming to life. Fragmented memories drifted through her consciousness, sounds and shapes and feelings. Missy rarely remembered her dreams. It was not unusual for her to wake up feeling as if no time had passed since she last closed her eyes. On the odd occassions that she did remember, the images had tended to fade quickly, leaving nothing in their wake.
Not this time, though. There was a... void in her mind. Something missing. Something important. She had woke up with the strangest feeling of urgency, and an echo of a girl's voice. After a few moments, the words had faded, and Missy was left with nothing but restless energy and a desire to leave the Rig.
A quick check of her phone gave Missy the time. Seven in the morning wasn't exactly the ideal time to go on patrol. Not many crimes were committed shortly after dawn.
Missy frowned.
No. Not patrol. She should go to the Boardwalk, instead. It had been a while since she'd just relaxed out of costume.
Even if the phrase 'relaxing out of costume' was a bit of a misnomer. To be honest, the whole process of going out in public usually ended up being more stressful than a cape fight, for Missy. She had few friends, at school or otherwise. It was, she felt, a natural result of being a hero at her age. Bonding with others her age was hard. There was only so much she could explain, and so much they could understand.
"What do you do for fun?" random girl A would ask.
"I dress up in kevlar and spandex and kick ass," Missy would reply.
"I can totally relate to that!" random girl A would exclaim.
Yeah. Not really a thing that happened. Between her 'job' and her somewhat abysmal home life, Missy just did not have many opportunities to make friends. Not close ones, at least. It was hard to befriend someone when you couldn't even invite them over to your house, lest they witness a screaming match between your parents. She'd learned her lesson after the second time it'd happened.
Rumors could do terrible things to a girl's self-esteem, and fifth graders were vicious little shits.
So, not much relaxation time for Missy. Patrolling the streets was how she relieved her stress. Stopping drug deals was how she preferred to unwind. Her grandfather had once told her, "If you love your job, you'll never work a day of your life." Missy believed that with all her heart.
One day, she'd be a full member of the Protectorate. Maybe she'd transfer away from Brockton, away from the crappy memories that saturated this dangerous place, or maybe not. Maybe she'd stay, fight, win. Maybe Vista would go down as one of the greats, beside the Triumvirate, and Chevalier, and Armsmaster. Or maybe not. Either way, she'd enjoy the ride.
Once she was a full member of the Protectorate.
For now, she was stuck as the youngest Ward, the poster girl, the kid. She saw just enough action to keep her mollified, barely, but not enough for the Youth Guard to throw a fit over endangering children.
Jerks. Just existing in Brockton Bay was danger to a child. Learning how to fight properly was just good sense.
Missy sighed, and shrugged on some clothes. It was too early in the morning to mope like this. The day was young, and she had a good feeling about it.
She made her way down the winding halls of the Rig, towards Armsmaster's lab. He was, technically, her direct superior (no matter how often he delegated that responsibility to Miss Militia and Carlos), and thus it was polite to give him a heads up that she wouldn't be on base and available. Her normal routine, on the weekends, was to spend as much time as possible at the Rig, or in costume. She'd stuck to this habit for over a year. Armsmaster usually assumed that she'd be around somewhere on base, if she was needed.
Missy wasn't conceited enough to see herself as some essential cog in the Protectorate machine, but nor did she want an irritated Armsmaster wasting his time looking for her. The man had been crabby for the past few days, culminating in an angry—though hushed—tirade towards Shadow Stalker, yesterday morning.
Missy hadn't seen Sophia since then.
She hoped Armsy had thrown the abrasive girl into the M/S tank, or something equally annoying and inconvenient, rather than just sending her home. Shadow Stalker was, by miles, the most unpleasant girl Missy had ever met. Getting stuck with a whole bunch of menial tasks was no less than what she deserved.
Missy found herself in front of the sliding metal door that led to Armsmaster's lab. She frowned at it — Locked. He must be busy.
Well, nothing unusual there.
She pressed down on the intercom installed outside the door. A few moments passed, before a robotic voice crackled out of the speaker.
"Yes?" Armsmaster sounded weary. More than usual, even. Like he'd sworn off coffee without bothering to change his work schedule.
"It's Vista," Missy said into the intercom. "I'm heading off the Rig, today. I just wanted to give you a heads-up."
A moment passed.
"Enter," Armsmaster stated, and the door to the lab whooshed open.
Missy shrugged. She hated his lab, but he almost always had a reason for doing what he did. As much as Armsmaster could be an anti-social jackass, he was very careful not to waste other people's time.
Armsmaster's lab was a cross between a tinker's wet dream and a platypus. Tech was scattered about the place, half-finished projects hanging off wall racks and ceiling mounts. Prototypes lay out in the open, each a conglomerate of pieces that absolutely should not work together, each somehow coming together perfectly. If there was any sort of organization to the chaos (of course there was, this was Armsy she was talking about), Missy couldn't see it. Kid Win, being a tinker, was a little better at navigating the chaos.
All Missy knew was that, almost as soon as she entered the lab, she got lost amongst the piles of machinery. She felt a bit like her old cat Monty, who used to get stranded inside the kitchen cabinets and stuck inside their drawers, meowing for help only to immediately get lost again the moment he was free.
Unlike her old kitty, Missy had superpowers. Bending space was mighty convenient for finding her way out of, and into, places. She could sort of... feel the environment around her. At least, the parts that she could effect. Her Manton limit meant that she couldn't accidentally stretch herself, nor could she manipulate the area directly around her wayward boss. A few experimental tugs, and Vista quickly found her target. Metal shifted out of her way, the narrow corridor of space expanding into a full on hallway, and Missy casually strolled forward.
She stopped in front of Armsy, the man elbow deep in the guts of a spare suit. He gave her a glance and a curt nod, as he worked. "An intelligent use of your power. Well done."
Missy bit back a scowl. He probably hadn't meant that to sound so backhanded.
"You mentioned that you are not staying on the Rig, today?" Armsmaster asked.
Missy nodded. "Yes sir. I thought I'd go out for a bit. To the Boardwalk, probably. Get some fresh air, you know?"
"I see." Armsmaster's face was unreadable beneath his helmet. "You have stayed on base every weekend, for sixty-seven weeks straight. Any reason you've decided to break your pattern?"
"Uh." Missy blinked. Had it really been that long since she'd last gone out? "I didn't realize... No. I didn't have any particular reason. I do now, though. Just hearing you say that out loud has me depressed."
Armsmaster's lip twitched upwards. "I see," he said slowly. "I must admit, I share the same problem. I can't remember when I last took time off."
At least the Youth Guard wouldn't raise a fuss at him when he worked too many hours.
"Well, I appreciate you alerting me," Armsmaster continued, idly grabbing something above Missy's eye-line. "Before you leave, do you mind giving me this week's password?"
His voice was so casual, that Vista almost didn't process the question. Password?
Oh, right. The Master/Stranger password.
Wait, what?
Missy looked at Armsmaster, taking in details she'd habitually ignored. He was tense, coiled like a spring. One of his hands was gripping something out of her view, and the other was concealed within the suit he was working on.
He looked ready for a fight.
"Bravo four-one-five!" Missy squeaked, inadvertently flinching away from the suddenly terrifying man.
His threatening posture faded immediately, and he stood up, with his hands held out non-threateningly. "I apologize, Vista, I didn't mean to alarm you." He sounded sincere.
Missy still wanted to kick him in his stupid shin.
"What the hell!? What was that!?" she demanded. "You looked ready to skewer me! How does wanting to leave the base translate into me being a threat?"
"I was simply concerned. People rarely break their behavioral patterns," he explained patiently, unperturbed by her anger. "Especially since you've yet to identify a reason for why you've changed yours."
"I just— I don't know, okay!? I just feel like I need some f—freaking social interaction and I can't get that here."
"You have teammates here to interact with," Armsmaster pointed out.
"Not right now I don't," Missy snapped back. "And they all treat me like a Christmas ornament anyway; like I'll break or get horribly traumatized or something, if we talk about anything fun."
She paused for a moment. "Except for Shadow Stalker, I guess, who just bitches at me instead."
Armsmaster stiffened minutely. It was almost imperceptible, but Missy was staring right at the man.
"What?" she challenged, still steaming mad. "You think I'm exaggerating?"
"The situation is probably not quite as bad as you perceive it to be," Armsmaster responded with all of his usual tact. "That said, having friends around your own age, and specifically, your own gender, is important. I can see why you might want to branch out, though I'd encourage you to make friends at your school."
"Not gonna tell me to make up with Sophia?" Missy asked, her anger slowly fading.
There was that tension, again. "No." He was hiding something. Poorly. Like he wanted her to figure it out, but was too much of a robot to convey his message properly.
This time Missy did scowl. "Isn't it your job to make sure we all get along?"
"One of my responsibilities is to ensure the Wards are capable of functioning as a team," he answered without answering.
Missy's scowl deepened. Whatever he was trying to communicate wasn't working.
"I apologize for making you feel threatened," he added, almost as an afterthought.
A moment passed.
"But you still haven't given a reason for your actions."
"There is no reason," Missy said, suddenly feeling exhausted. She couldn't believe that she had to explain this to the man. "I just feel like it. You know, feelings? Those things that people have, occasionally?"
"I see," he replied in a tone that screamed No I don't. "Then, by all means, enjoy yourself. You've alleviated my concerns." He gave her shoulder an awkward pat, then sat back down, returning to his work.
Missy stared at him, aghast. This could be her in ten years. Was he really this socially stunted, or did he just place zero value on manners?
Whatever. She needed to get out of here. She'd go to the Boardwalk, have some fun, maybe make a new friend. She had a good feeling about today.
She spun on her heel, making another corridor with her power, and left his lab.
She glanced back, every now and then, after she exited the Rig. She couldn't quite shake the feeling of being watched from afar, and half expected Armsmaster to be peeking out from some random corner. She never found anything odd, though, and so she moved on.
The feeling remained.
Author Notes:
Trying a slightly different take on Armsy. Slightly.
Vista is a fun balance between annoyed tween and serious superhero.
As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.
Hope you enjoyed it.Last edited: Jun 9, 2018422McSwazeyJun 3, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 7 View contentMcSwazeyJun 9, 2018#272It was surprisingly easy for Taylor to convince Danny to leave her at the Boardwalk.
"But I'm bored dad!" she had whined to him, the moment she'd woken up. "I need fresh air and sunshine! Visiting the hospital only made me restless."
He had been worried, of course. Taylor was technically still wheelchair-bound, though she was able to make it up and down the stairs, using crutches, with a little effort. Fortunately for Taylor, Brockton Bay, despite its many many flaws, was rather wheelchair accessible. Almost every bus had a ramp or a lift, and the Boardwalk was practically made out of ramps.
It was only practical. After all, even with Amy 'I Can Heal Anything Short of Crippling Brain Damage' Dallon as a local, the number of physically disabled people within the city was over twice the state average. Taylor had never given much thought to statistics such as that before. It was always just background noise. Brockton Bay was Brockton Bay. Nothing weird about it.
She had perspective now. Not hers, but others. You couldn't spend time in another person's head without picking up some of their preconceptions. What was the quote again? Something about gazing into an abyss? It seemed to perfectly encapsulate her power.
She had spent a good deal of time dancing through the memories of men and women infinitely more worldly than her. A doctor who had served in Africa, putting people back together after a local Warlord had ripped through them. A nurse who had grown up in Kyushu, who had watched her home sink into the ocean. Taylor had seen the best and worst moments of people's lives, she could handle going to the Boardwalk alone. It was literally nothing.
Not that she said any of that out loud.
Instead, she pointed out the obvious. Danny could drop her off, could watch her roll up onto the wooden walkway that spanned the coast. The Enforcers would watch over her, over everyone, and make sure nothing untoward happened. It was literally their job to keep the peace. You couldn't have an unsafe tourist trap. That would defeat the point.
Yes, she would pack a lunch ahead of time. There were plenty of tables that she could use. She wouldn't go hungry.
No, she wouldn't get bored and wander off. She wasn't a nine-year old. There was plenty to do at the beach, even if she couldn't roll onto the sand.
Yes, she would bring her crutches. They could fold into her little backpack, even if they stuck out a bit. Nobody was going to steal a pair of crutches from a girl in a wheelchair. Even Brocktonites weren't so desperate and petty.
No, she wouldn't rather go with him to work. Watching him go through paperwork was about as interesting as watching the grass grow.
Yes, she'd be careful. Yes, she had spare change for a payphone. Yes, she remembered his work number.
No. She would not invite Emma.
Eventually, he caved. Easy, if time consuming. Danny needed a break from her, every bit as she did from him. When they were at home together, father and daughter, they just... were. There was no relationship there, not anymore. Not for a long time. Just Danny's constant brooding and Taylor's sullen, simmering resentment.
She loved her father. Really, she did. She just didn't have the slightest clue how to talk to him. Taylor suspected that he faced the same problem. They were just two humans living in the same house, bound by mutual affection but separated by grief and neglect and about twenty-five years of life. Their relationship was a log on a river. Going places, sure, but nowhere in particular and certainly not where they wanted. They were at the mercy of the current, tossing and turning with no paddles for movement or eyes (because they were a log) to navigate, and at some point this metaphor had really started to fall apart.
The point was: they both needed a break. She would go to the Boardwalk, and he to work. Maybe she'd find Missy, maybe they'd be friends, or maybe not. Maybe her power didn't work quite like how she wanted it to, and Taylor would remain alone. That was fine, too. She was used to it by now.
Danny would go to work and do grown-up things, like bringing home metaphorical and literal bacon. These half-days were taking a toll on the family's meager savings. He needed to believe that Taylor could take care of herself while he was away, if only so that he could pay their bills.
Taylor wasn't blind. She could see the stress lines on her fathers face. They'd vanished, briefly, in those first few days, but now they were just as deep as when she had woken up. He couldn't keep staying home with her, not if they wanted to keep eating.
So, Taylor packed a lunch, a ham and turkey sandwich with some potato chips, and stuffed it into a brown paper bag. The bag went into her raggedy old backpack, along with some napkins, a few water bottles, and a bottle of pepper spray. A notebook and pencils joined the food, and then Taylor was ready to go.
"You've got everything you need?" Danny asked her, as he wheeled her out the door. At some point earlier in the week, he had installed a makeshift ramp over the front steps, so he didn't have to carry her every time they left the house.
"I've got everything I need," Taylor confirmed, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into her voice. "My money-clip is in my pocket, and I've got spare coins in my backpack. I'll be fine, dad."
Danny couldn't quite keep the worry off his face, but he made a valiant effort. They piled into his beat up van, and off they went. Traffic was light for a Saturday morning, and the Boardwalk was only just waking up. They arrived in good time. Danny found parking fairly easily, and helped Taylor into her wheelchair, frowning all the while. He stared down at her, once she was situated, and a blind man could see the conflict within him. It was practically carved into his brow, the stress lines forming into squiggly words like worry and fear and safety.
Taylor smiled up at him. "See you later, dad."
The creases on his forehead didn't smooth. Not a bit. But, his expression lightened. He forced a smile, an ugly, crooked thing, and hugged Taylor close. He loved her dearly, even if he couldn't communicate it well.
"Be safe, sweetheart."
Danny left, and Taylor was alone.
Well, as alone as one could be at the entrance to the city's biggest tourist attraction. Taylor could see the Rig from here, the Protectorate's massive headquarters, its force field shimmering in the daylight. People drifted in and out, the morning crowd only just beginning to arrive.
Once again, Taylor wondered if she'd actually find Missy here. Best not to keep her waiting.
Taylor rolled up the closest ramp, onto the wooden walkway that circled the Boardwalk. Its condition was pristine, in comparison to the bumpy concrete sidewalks that lined most of the city. Her wheelchair coasted along easily, weaving between tourists taking pictures.
Taylor felt like a race car. She struggled not to make engine noises. Vroom.
She eventually found a table, one nearby the Southern entrance, where she could set up and relax. The table had an umbrella in the center, and Taylor popped it out for the shade. A few shifting movements, and she was slouched in her chair, almost leaning backwards. She kicked her feet up, resting them on the table seat, and relaxed.
If nothing else, it was a beautiful day.
People-watching had never been Taylor's hobby. Then again, Taylor had never really had a hobby. Reading, she supposed, might count if one was generous. Not anymore, though. She found it hard to take pleasure in something that reminded her so much of her mother. That wound hadn't quite scabbed over, yet. She needed something else to occupy her free time.
So, people-watching it was. It was remarkably similar to watching dreams. An extension of it, really. Taylor found that she could judge a person at a glance, that she could almost understand them, from expression alone. Nothing too deep, nothing too personal, but enough. She could see a woman walking past and know that she was looking to buy a present for a younger loved one. A child, probably. She was anxious about it, worried that she might make the wrong purchase.
That was the extent of it, though. Nothing really superhuman, so much as connecting the obvious. Her anxiety was written on her face, clear to anyone who looked. Her eyes scanned the store fronts, stopping on children's baubles.
It was plain to see, and Taylor would absolutely not have noticed it a month ago. It was slightly concerning how seamlessly her power had changed her, and how easily she'd accepted the change. She was better now, than she'd been. She was still Taylor. She still loved her dad and the memory of her mom, she still hated Emma, still despised Sophia. She still was disgusted by Winslow, by the callousness of the staff, by their disregard for her suffering.
But she'd lived half a dozen lifetimes, had lived out her wildest fantasies and had slain her inner demons. She'd beaten Emma to a bloody pulp a hundred times in a row and felt the utter pointlessness of it. She had been praised as a hero, as a savior, as a Goddess, felt, felt a city worship her as the second coming of Scion. It was so hard to muster up anger towards her old tormentors. It had been ages since she'd last seen them, last thought of them. Taylor liked herself now, and she couldn't have said that before—
A girl sat down beside her.
Taylor really needed to stop zoning out. She glanced over, taking in the face of this new person.
Vista. No. Missy.
A wide smile appeared on Taylor's face, and she quickly straightened in her seat. She turned towards the heroine, a happy greeting on her lips.
"Sorry," Missy said, before the words could leave Taylor's mouth. "You just, you looked really familiar, for some reason. Do I know you?"
The smile slid off Taylor's face like rainwater.
Missy flinched slightly at her gaze, stammering, "Sorry, again. I— I'll just go." She turned to leave, and Taylor's arm snapped out, wrapping around Missy's wrist.
"No!" she said, fighting against her own disappointment. "Er, you don't have to go. For a second there, I thought you were someone else too. I'm not mad."
Missy frowned, shaking off Taylor's grip. Still, she sat back down, even if it was a little further away. Her eyes regarded Taylor's with naked confusion. "So I thought I knew you, and you thought you knew me, but neither of us knows the other?"
"Yes?" Taylor replied with an earnest smile.
"Uh huh," Vista said evenly. She was slowly falling into full Ward mode, picking at the details that didn't add up. That couldn't add up.
Taylor rushed to fill the holes.
"I've been in the hospital for, like, months," she explained carefully. "If you've been to Brockton General recently, we might have seen each other in passing." She paused. "Could that be why?"
Taylor could see the moment Missy made the connection. She might not remember Armada, but she clearly remembered Taylor, even if the memory was but a few sentences and a smile.
"That's probably it," Missy said hurriedly, clearly skirting past an explanation. She pressed on, trying to distract Taylor from prying. "Do you mind me asking why you were hospitalized for so long?" The words were followed by a wince at her lack of tact.
Taylor just smiled placidly. "I was in a coma."
Missy blinked. "Oh. That's a really long coma." Another wince.
"Yes, it was," Taylor laughed, leaning back in her seat. "They even brought in Panacea to take a look at me. Turns out that I was under the effect of a parahuman power." Her own, in fact.
Missy's eyes widened. "You were the—" she stopped herself, and Taylor raised an eyebrow.
"That is, uh, I meant to say, you were the girl who made the news!" Missy stammered out, flushing pink. Taylor assumed that she had been about to spill some sort of Ward secret. Surely they would have been warned about an unknown and presumably hostile cape prancing through Winslow, putting innocent girls into comas?
It was certainly an adorable dissimulation, given the circumstances.
"Yep, I'm the girl who got attacked by a cape while at school," Taylor confirmed. She considered how far to tease Missy, then continued speaking. "Though, I wouldn't call it making the news. That kinda implies that it was a good thing, I think."
Missy flailed her arms wildly. "No! I didn't mean it like that!" she exclaimed. She leaned forward, earnestness radiating from her voice. "Whoever did that to you was a horrible person, and I'm sorry you went through it."
She sounded honest, real. Taylor greatly preferred Missy over Vista. She waved off the younger girl's hasty apologies. "I know you didn't, it's fine. And, hey, I got to meet Armsmaster when I woke up, so that almost makes it worth it."
Missy's face twitched into the tiniest of scowls. Taylor wanted to pinch her cheeks. "So you're a fan of big and blue?"
"And silver," Taylor chipped in helpfully. "But, yeah, a little bit. More like I'm a fan of heroes in general, though." Taylor shrugged, searching for the words. "What they do is important, y'know? I admire them."
Missy grinned, puffing up slightly. "Yeah? Who is your favorite, then?"
Taylor returned her grin and opened her mouth, then stopped. She could lie here, and say Vista. She could talk about how she admired the youth's determination, her drive, her skill. She could talk about how unfair it was that age trumped seniority, how Vista should lead the Wards, how PR was wrong to paint her as a little girl.
Most of those things, taken individually, were even true.
But together, they were a lie. Taylor didn't like Vista. She didn't like the mask. She didn't like the posturing. She didn't like that desperate desire to prove herself, that blotted out all else.
She liked the girl behind the mask, the brave, good-hearted young girl who just wanted to help her friends survive. That was the girl Taylor wanted to know.
And so, she told the truth.
"Miss Militia, I think, as far as the locals go." Taylor nodded. "Yeah, I've only ever heard good things about her. She seems like a good role model."
Missy's grin faded into a soft smile. "Yeah, she is."
They both faded into silence for a moment.
Vista turned to Taylor, extending her hand. "I'm Missy Biron."
Taylor took it. "Taylor Hebert."
They each sat back, some strange understanding passing between them, and the air seemed to lighten.
"So what brings you to the Boardwalk today, Taylor?" Missy asked cheekily, eyeing Taylor's lounging form.
She shrugged. "I felt cooped up at home. I needed some fresh air. Do some people watching. Maybe talk with them, too. Gotta stretch those social muscles. You?"
Missy nodded in agreement. "The same, basically. I've been sticking to the same routine for months with nothing to really show for it. It was time for a change." A pause, then, "Care for some company?"
"Make yourself comfortable," Taylor said, motioning the younger girl closer and gesturing towards the passing crowd. "Let's see what you can do."
Missy grinned, taking up a seat at Taylor's side. Together, they watched people walk by, guessing at their destination. Taylor won more than she lost, to Missy's vocal displeasure. The pair stayed until lunch, until the crowd was so thick that they could barely make out individuals, much less identify where they went. They left for calmer pastures, seeking a quiet place to eat. Taylor split her sandwich with her new friend, and they ate in silence.
At some point they, simultaneously and individually, realized that they had no idea how to actively befriend someone. It had been too long, for both of them. Neither could remember what it was like to innocently suggest such a thing.
But they tried anyway, and nature ran its inevitable course. Effort was, after all, the only real requirement for a friendship. The rest would come with time.
They parted ways in the afternoon.
Missy returned to the Rig, feeling slightly less trapped, slightly less stressed, with Taylor's home number in hand.
Danny picked Taylor up shortly after, greeting her with a relieved smile. He asked vague questions about her day, and she returned just as vague answers.
He finished with, "So, a good day then?"
Taylor looked down, running a thumb over the looping scrawl in her hand. Missy's cell number.
"Yeah," she decided. "A good day."
Author Notes:
Trying to ride that line between awkward first encounter and dream induced familiarity.
As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.
Hope you enjoyed it.Last edited: Apr 15, 2019418McSwazeyJun 9, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 8 View contentMcSwazeyJun 18, 2018#324The weekend ended uneventfully for Taylor. When Monday rolled around, Danny returned to work. Her father had finally accepted that Taylor was capable of feeding herself for at least one meal per day. With hospital bills and lawyer fees piling up, he literally could not afford to babysit her anymore. So, time marched on, and Taylor was left to her own devices.
She was fairly ambivalent about her newfound solitude. Conversations with her father had been stilted and awkward months before her hospitalization, and had seen little progress since then. She could survive without his constant, hovering presence. Most of her time was spent napping, anyway.
She had collected dozens of new dreamers at the Boardwalk, and, as the days crept by, most of her time was spent sorting through her new channels. There was never a lack of variety, for Taylor. Every person's dreamscape was unique, even if she was the only one who could see the difference. It was in the colors, and the shapes, and the minor details. It was a difference of taste, or smell, or touch. Every person saw the world in a slightly different way, but Taylor saw it in every way.
She dreamed of birthday parties and funerals, of Ferris wheels and traffic jams, of aspirations failed and fulfilled. Each dream was a world unto itself, given form by Taylor's dreamers and life through Taylor's power. She lived and died and lived again, over and over and over each night.
She spent most of her time as an observer. She hovered on the boundary of a dream, close enough to touch, but not disrupt. Just close enough to feel, but not manipulate. The majority of people did not need her help. Their dreams were unmarred by tragedy. Simple, and beautiful. She savored those for the feelings they evoked, that peaceful cradle of sleep. Their dreams were but flashes of emotion, and Taylor dared not give them shape, lest she twist them into what they were not.
She had learned the price of carelessness. She never meddled where she could safely observe.
Not all dreamers were at peace. Nightmares occasionally trickled through Taylor's world. They manifested as dark clouds, brief flashes of lightning, or booming thunder. For these, Taylor would interfere. She was not a god, but this was her domain. Here, she was strong. She would not allow suffering that could easily be prevented.
She would follow the sounds of thunder, would follow the trails of lightning that flashed beneath vast clouds, down to their source. There was always a television screen at the end, scorched black and surrounded by burnt earth. She would expand it, step into it, surround herself with the mind of another. She would sunder nightmares, shatter them into pieces, and hurl the fragments into the abyss between worlds. Usually, that was enough. Whatever brief, subsconscious fear spawned the thing would recede, and the dream would be at piece.
Occasionally, they would return. The ones spawned by trauma, or fear, or insecurity. The insidious, creeping darkness that dwelled in the back of a person's mind, undermining them in their sleep. For those, Taylor took a more active role.
Safety was the most common fear. Visions of houses being flattened, friends and family and children, killed in the streets, of random large-scale violence igniting at the smallest spark of conflict. It wasn't even a particularly irrational fear. Brockton Bay was not known for its overwhelming safety standards. While many capes would not stoop to attacking civilians, their underlings held no such restrictions. Robberies were common and beatings were not uncommon. There was no real guarantee of safety.
Still, no need to lose sleep over that fact.
Hope was Taylor's solution. Or, perhaps it was better to say faith. Faith in the heroes, faith in other people, faith that someone, somewhere, would assist if things went horribly, terribly wrong. She twisted the nightmares, intercepting faceless mobs with Armsmaster's shining halberd, bending bullets with Vista's determined form, giving vaguely inspiring speeches behind Gallant's silver mask. Gang members turned on each other, attacking in defense of their victims, crying out ridiculous cliches like "Enough is enough!" and "I can't just watch anymore!". It was all very overt and dramatic. A child could have seen through such blatant manipulation.
In the waking world.
But these were dreams, and Taylor ruled them. When she willed people to believe, they believed. Whether or not they carried those beliefs into their daily lives, Taylor neither knew nor cared. Their nightmares did not return, their sleep went undisturbed, and that was all that mattered.
And then there was Missy.
They talked during the week. Not often, but enough to support their burgeoning friendship. Taylor liked the younger girl. She enjoyed their conversations, brief as they were. Missy had a dry, sarcastic wit, that struggled to show itself. She had so many self-built walls, of discipline, of presentation, of image. Even in her civilian identity, Taylor could hear Missy struggle to bypass them. The young hero couldn't talk about what she did in her free time, couldn't speak of her hobbies, couldn't even name her other friends.
It was always "This older guy I know said this," or "This woman who is kinda like my big sister said that." Taylor could see why Missy struggled to connect with her peers. She was just a little too cagey with her details, a little too short with her words. A little too mature for her age. It made it hard to trust her. Red flags, just, everywhere.
Luckily, Taylor knew Missy. She knew her at a level that was downright invasive. Breach of privacy or not, it enabled their friendship. Vista could complain about her day, could whine about vague older boys who had defective senses of humor, and Taylor could smile and laugh. No details were given, and Taylor did not press. It was an odd relationship, at best, but Taylor was happy with it. They were both relearning how friendships worked.
Taylor did not enter Missy's dreams. She saw flashes of them, occasionally. She couldn't help it when they came, those brief peeks into the mind of her friend. But, she did not look closer, nor did she interfere. It felt wrong to do that to her friend. Unfair. That sort of intimate understanding... it would give Taylor an overwhelming advantage in every conversation between them. She didn't want that kind of power over another person, especially not her friend.
Strangers, men and women who she'd never meet nor interact with, they were fair game. She couldn't wield her influence over them in the Real. She felt no shame at peeking behind the curtain. It was hypocritical, certainly, but Taylor shrugged it off as a necessary aspect of her power. She couldn't really avoid breaches of privacy.
But she could damn sure try, for the people she cared about.
So Taylor left Missy's dreams alone, even when she found them beneath dark clouds, surrounded by lightning and scorched earth. Her friend was strong. She was a hero. Taylor would not help unless she was asked. She would not delve into the younger girl's nightmares, until she admitted that they existed at all.
Missy deserved that much.
She extended the same courtesy to her father, or at least she tried. At times she couldn't help herself. Danny would dream of Annette, and Taylor would watch from the outside. He would dream of Taylor's childhood, and she would join with him. She would bask in the love and affection they shared, she would look upon her mother's face and weep tears of joy, happily losing herself in the dream.
Those nights were the hardest for Taylor to wake from. It was a struggle, every time. She could feel how easy it would be, to lock herself away, with her father beside her. They could spend their lives on repeat, reliving memories for a small eternity, until their bodies failed them and they joined Annette in the afterlife. It was so tempting, lost in the moment, in the memories, but then Taylor would wake and feel horror at how close she came to losing herself once again.
Yet still, every time Danny dreamed of Annette, Taylor would join him.
Author Notes:
Had a major case of writer's block this week, so have a baby chapter. Just some Taylor being Taylor. Nothing to see here, really.
As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.
Hope you enjoyed it.Last edited: Jun 19, 2018349McSwazeyJun 18, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 9 View contentMcSwazeyJun 22, 2018#361Taylor's gift basket arrived on Friday. The delivery man's loud knocking woke her up, and she made her way down the stairs half-asleep and still in her pajamas. She blearily signed the paper presented to her, and slowly regarded the massive package on her doorstep. It contained a rather dizzying array of seasonal fruit, a few hidden chocolates, and a thank-you card, all stacked neatly atop each other and wrapped in plastic.
It took her approximately twenty seconds to realize that she couldn't lift the thing off her front porch. Thirty seconds of panicked flailing, awkward phrasing, and stuttered thanks later, and the delivery man exited her front porch for the second time.
Taylor sat in her kitchen, and stared at what she had purchased for Panacea.
It wasn't too big, right? Glory Girl could bench press a dump truck. This thing shouldn't give her any problems. That was, after all, still the plan: use Victoria Dallon as a proxy, to deliver Taylor's thanks. As grateful as Taylor was to the hospital, she didn't want to see her gift basket abandoned in the nurse's lounge. Not this gift basket, at least. Maybe she'd order a separate one, once her meager savings had recovered.
Regardless, the size of the gift matched Taylor's gratitude. Without Amy Dallon's interference, Taylor would likely have still been stuck in a wheelchair, and in for a much longer recovery. It was worth the hassle to transport it.
Even if she'd have to strap the thing to the roof of her dad's van.
She considered the package for another moment, then nodded her head. She reached for their home phone, a cheap plastic corded monstrosity, and dialed one of the few numbers she'd bothered to memorize.
After a few rings, and older woman answered. "Hello?"
Taylor couldn't help but smile a bit. "Hey, Glenda. It's Taylor. Do you have a minute?"
"Taylor!" the nurse exclaimed happily. "Of course I have time dear, I'm on a break. I wouldn't have answered, otherwise."
Right, important medical stuff. That was a thing. Better make this quick, then. "Does Panacea have a shift today?" Taylor inquired.
Glenda hummed for a moment. "She doesn't have set shifts like you are thinking of. Technically she's a volunteer, so it's really more of a day-by-day thing. Even so, she spends so much time here, you'd think it was her house! That girl, really, she overworks herself so—"
"Sorry," Taylor interrupted with a wince, "but are you expecting her to come in today?"
"Not at all, dear," Glenda replied easily. "And, yes, I suspect we'll be seeing young Miss Dallon some time after lunch. That's when she usually gets out of class. Arcadia is a vocational school, don't you know? Her time at the hospital is counted as work, even though she refuses to be paid, the silly girl."
"Right," Taylor agreed absently. "Glory Girl usually drops her off, right?"
"Quite so. She's quite a girl, that Victoria Dallon. Very attached to her sister, and Amy is the same way. Why, I hardly ever see her smile when Vicky isn't around," Glenda elaborated.
"That's good to know," Taylor said. "The reason I'm asking, though, is because the gift basket I ordered finally came in. I was wondering—"
"Oh yes, I remember now!" the older woman exclaimed. "You wanted to ask Vicky for help delivering your gift, right?"
Taylor nodded, before remembering she was on the phone. "Yes, that's right. Although, that was your idea originally, ma'am."
"Nonsense, I'm sure you would have thought of it eventually." Taylor could almost picture Glenda's dismissive hand-wave. "Shall I give you a call when Glory Girl arrives, then? Or perhaps when Panacea is leaving for the day? Though, I expect her to be here until quite late. Amy tends stay a while on Fridays."
"Whatever is easiest for you," Taylor replied immediately. She bit her lip, not really wanting to inconvenience the older woman, but having few options available. "Though, if it's not too much to ask, could you somehow... stall Glory Girl a bit, whenever you do see her? My house isn't all that close to the hospital, and it might take me a bit to make it there."
"Naturally, Taylor. It won't be an inconvenience at all," Glenda said slyly. "I do believe that young Victoria will agree to wait for you, just by asking her. She shares the staff's opinion on her sister, after all. The girl works too hard for too little reward."
Taylor sighed with relief. "That's great. Thanks, Glenda."
She clicked the phone back on its receiver, mind racing. In just a few hours, she'd be meeting Glory Girl and Panacea. Her power would mark them the moment she laid eyes on them, and unlike Gallant, Missy, and the rest of the Wards, their identities were open to the public. They had no private identity to violate.
New Wave was about accountability. That had been their core ideal, years ago when the team had first gone public. It never quite caught on, really, but Taylor liked the idea. Heroes being open about their actions felt right. That was something she could get behind.
So really, it was almost like her civic duty to make sure the youngest members of New Wave slept peacefully. Literally no one else could do the job.
It was all up to her.
______________
Danny worked half a day, at Taylor's request. He arrived home just before noon, bearing greasy burgers and french fries. They demolished the fast food together, while watching television and swapping small talk.
"Kurt got a dog," Danny offered.
Taylor nodded, absently munching on a fry. "Uh huh."
"It's a big ol' puppy. A Labrador, almost twenty pounds already," her dad continued.
"That's neat," Taylor said.
"I was thinking, maybe we get a pet around here. Something to keep you company?"
Taylor stopped chewing. She turned towards Danny, giving him as incredulous a look as she could muster.
"Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "I suppose we can't afford an animal at the moment."
Silence fell between them, broken only by the occasionally slurp or crunch.
Taylor finished her burger, balling up the wrapping paper and tossing it into the bag from whence it came. She stood up, wiping her hands on a spare napkin, and shuffled towards the faucet.
Danny's eyes followed her, his mouth twisted into a grimace. "Taylor, I've been meaning to ask—"
The phone rang, interrupting him.
"I've got it!" Taylor exclaimed, almost diving for the receiver. She pulled it free and pressed it against her ear. "Hebert residence."
"Hello dearie," Glenda's warm voice crackled out of the speaker. "I just thought I'd let you know, Glory Girl just arrived with Panacea. She said she'll stick around for a bit. There are quite a few fans around."
Taylor grinned into the phone. "Thanks Glenda! I'm on my way!"
The phone clicked back into the receiver, and Taylor spun around to face Danny, pulling out her best puppy eyes.
He sighed indulgently, and they were off.
______________
Taylor had briefly considered inviting Missy along on this little trip, but thought better of it. Despite her hero status, Missy's relationship with Glory Girl was dubious at best. From the few flashes that she'd seen within Missy's dream, it was easy to gather that the younger girl was not a fan of Victoria Dallon. Jealousy was not a pretty thing, no matter how hard Missy fought to hide it. No need to rub salt in that wound.
Still, from those brief flashes of memory, Taylor had assumed she'd be ready to speak to Glory Girl. She had thought herself prepared to face a heroine both beautiful and powerful. Unfortunately, Missy's memory didn't quite do the girl justice. It was hard to describe the sheer perfection that Vicky Dallon radiated. To stand within twenty feet of her, was to feel utterly inadequate.
Taylor sat in her chair, perfectly still. Her father stood behind her, also frozen. Even the massive gift basket seemed to shrink in on itself, dwarfed by Glory Girl's mere presence. It was pressure, an almost physical force, like awe made manifest.
A shining, golden goddess stood in front of Taylor, beaming widely at the basket nestled in her lap. "Oh wow, that's huge! No wonder you wanted my help. I'm Vicky, by the way. Nice to meet you." A flawless hand was thrust in front of Taylor's face. Dare she commit the sin of touching such perfection?
Her brain felt kinda funny.
The girl's smile faltered. "Are you okay?"
"Bwuh?" Taylor replied succinctly.
The pressure receded, and Glory Girl's beauty shrank to just beneath supernatural. The heroine bit her lip, and nervously tugged at her ear as she glanced around the room. "Ahh, crap. Just a bit of aura slippage folks. Nothing to see here." She leaned towards Taylor, her smile a touch less radiant. "Sorry. Can we start over?"
Danny unfroze, sagging in place like a deflated balloon. He shook his head like a dog, still lightheaded from the endorphin rush. He limply waved a hand at her and rasped, "Don't worry about it."
Taylor slowly relaxed, blinking rapidly as her emotions fell back to normal. "That was a rush," she stated, her calm voice hiding a storm of what the fuck.
No wonder Missy hated this chick.
Glory Girl frowned slightly. "Sorry, again. Amy doesn't get gifts from normal people very often, so I was a little eager." She paused, and winced. "And that sounded super pretentious. What I meant to say is that Amy usually gets gifts from rich assholes who want to buy exclusive access to her magic touch. I'm hoping that she'll loosen up a bit when she sees some honest gratitude."
Taylor scowled. "People aren't grateful when she heals them? Assholes."
"Oh, no no. They're verbally thankful. There's plenty of that. Just not materially thankful, if you get my meaning?" Victoria winked exaggeratedly.
"Oh." Taylor looked at the heavy basket in her lap. "Well I'm glad to help, I guess?"
Vicky snatched up the gift with one hand, easily hefting it into the air. "I've been trying to get her to charge people for ages. Just a bit, you know? She could use the spending money, the miser. " She moved to leave. "I'll be sure to tell her you said thanks."
"About that," Taylor interjected, leaning forward in her seat. "I was kinda hoping I could say it in person..."
Vicky looked at her, then glanced over Danny. "Well, we can go see if she's busy, at least. C'mon." She waved them forward, floating towards the elevators. The basket hung effortlessly from her shoulder.
As they stood together in the elevator, Victoria laughed sheepishly. "I just realized I never got your name."
"It's on the card," Taylor mentioned, "but it's Taylor Hebert. That's my dad, Danny." He gave the blonde a wave at Taylor's prompting.
"Ah. Nice to meet you both," Glory Girl said, nodding her head.
It was awkward.
Finally the metal box released them with a ding, and they followed the cheerful heroine into the Maternity Ward. Victoria cavalierly strolled past a security checkpoint, Danny nervously following in her wake. Their presence warranted a few odd looks, but they moved mostly unimpeded. Finally, Vicky came to a stop outside a large room.
She spun around to face Taylor, still wearing an easy smile. "Wait here, I'll check if she's busy." Without another word, she opened the door and walked inside.
Taylor gaped at the heroine's casual invasion of what was almost certainly a private room. She looked up at Danny, unsure if this was normal behavior. Her father returned her glance with a helpless shrug.
Well, if that was the way things worked around here, why not? Taylor wheeled herself forward to the door, and gave it a light push. It swung open easily, revealing—
That was Panacea helping someone give birth.
Oh.
The healer was hunched over a woman in stirrups, one hand on a very pregnant belly, and the other fending off her sister. Vicky talked animatedly, one hand gesturing carelessly in Taylor's direction, and the other tossing the gift basket up and down like a basket ball.
Taylor inched the door shut before someone could glance her way.
"Well she seems busy," Taylor announced, her voice oddly high-pitched.
"Quite busy," her dad agreed.
They looked at each other, united in purpose.
"Give her a minute?" Danny asked.
"Just one," Taylor agreed.
They gave Vicky five. She didn't come back out. Danny wheeled Taylor out of the hospital, doing his very best to look inconspicuous, while Taylor pondered the sisters.
It was unfortunate that she didn't get to thank Amy in person. That was alright, though. There would be other chances. She'd gotten to see her, at least.
She would see her again, tonight.
Author Notes:
Vicky is so much fun to write. I exaggerated her bad traits here a bit, for fun and because it felt right, so feel free to consider it as AU.
As always, comments and criticisms are welcome.
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