Emily Piggot grimaced as she went over the damage report. Cape fights often caused damage, that was just the natural consequence of battles between people with phenomenal powers and less than phenomenal control. Fortunately, repair funds didn't come from the PRT or Protectorate budgets so long as she could demonstrate that members of those organizations had taken all reasonable precautions to prevent collateral damage. Unfortunately, that also meant their organization had to clearly demonstrate, for every recorded instance of parahuman caused damage, that it had been both caused by a villain, and that there was no reasonable way that the heroes on scene would have been able to safely prevent that damage. The companies that offered villain insurance to buildings were willing to jump on even the barest hint of preventable damage, and while those cases were usually settled by their legal team long before they saw a courtroom, it still tied up resources that she really couldn't afford to lose. At least there was more leniency for the actions of the Wards, in part because those same insurance companies rarely wanted to face the combined legal force of the PRT and the Youth Guard.
Currently, she was looking over damages caused in a recent skirmish between several members of the Protectorate and four members of the Empire. A concerned citizen had called in an Empire initiation happening near them, which had resulted in Dauntless, Assault, and Battery responding and apprehending the gang members and their recruits. That, in turn, had led to a swift response from Krieg, Fenja, and Menja, who had been flown in by Rune. In the end, they had rescued the six people who had been kidnapped and would have been maimed or killed for the initiation, but the fight had ended up damaging not just the abandoned office where the initiation was taking place but also several of the nearby buildings. That was almost a foregone conclusion when fighting two women who could grow as large as an Endbringer as well as a teenager who could and did telekinetically throw cars and manhole covers with wild abandon. The Damage Response Division had done a good job on the write up, fortunately, and she didn't spot any obvious errors or mistakes. She rarely did—they were damn good at their job, a product of having ample experience in a city like Brockton Bay—but given just how disastrous it could be for the budget when they screwed up, Emily made sure to always read the reports before they were sent out to the city and the appropriate insurance agencies. That, and reading those reports kept her grounded and made sure she never forgot the very real cost of cape fights.
A soft knock at her door caused her to check her watch and then grimace. She'd worked straight through lunch, apparently, and it was already time for her 1 o'clock appointment. Closing out of the report, Emily shifted slightly in her seat as she prepared to deal with one of her most troublesome Wards, although admittedly not by any of the girl's own efforts. "Come in," she called out.
Bumble walked in, fluffy antenna bouncing in a chaotic and ridiculous manner. "Hello, Director," she said, smiling, but there was a nervousness to her that Emily didn't like. Well, she was always on edge when one of the ENE capes requested a meeting, and especially when it was one of the Wards.
"Your request said that you wanted to talk about something sensitive," she said, inclining her head in greeting.
"I did. Or, well, I do, I suppose," the girl said, taking a deep breath. "It has to do with Amelia Dallon."
Emily cocked her head to the side, just slightly. "Panacea? I wasn't aware that you had met her."
Bumble shook her head. "Well, I haven't met her in costume yet, but we both go to Arcadia and I usually sit at the same table as Victoria Dallon. She was gone for the the first two weeks after I'd joined the Wards. I'm sure you're aware of that, since you were the one who arranged for her to be out of the city to keep her safe from the Butcher."
The last part was said calmly, and Emily did her best not to react, but she couldn't control the way that her heart rate had jumped. She considered denying it, but if the girl had worked out this much already, she doubted that it would do much good. "I did, yes," she confirmed, keeping her expression and tone carefully neutral, even as one hand snuck under her desk to hover by the emergency button. It wouldn't do much for her, if Butcher decided to attack her, but it would at least warn the rest of the PRT.
The girl looked confused for a moment, and then let out a little laugh. "Oh, I don't blame you for it, Director. In fact, I'm glad that you were looking out for her welfare, even if it's just because she's too valuable of an asset for the PRT to risk. I imagine you would have done a similar thing to the other Wards, if you were able to figure something out in time."
Emily winced internally. Yes, she'd looked into getting the other Wards away for a time, but her hands had been tied by legislation and, ironically enough, Youth Guard imposed protections related to civilian identities and prejudicial treatment. She was only able to get Panacea out because she wasn't part of the Protectorate, and even that had burned a substantial amount of political capital to pull off, but she'd weighed that against the need to have the healer stay safe and capable of healing victims in the wake of a potential Butcher attack and found it well worth the price. Still, she'd felt the failure to protect the other Wards strongly.
"What did you want to discuss about Miss Dallon?" Emily said, choosing to move past that land mine of a conversation.
Bumble took a deep breath, looking serious and a little sad despite her bright and goofy costume. "I recently found out that one of the past Butchers was her mother."
Well. That had certainly not been on Emily's bingo sheet this year. "I see," she said, keeping any judgement clear from her tone. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand why you felt the need to tell me that in person."
Bumble leaned back in her chair. "Being the Butcher isn't exactly a neat and tidy process," she started, her voice quiet and almost contemplative. "I mean, I guess that's obvious, but even with my capacity for multitasking, it's still complicated. I don't just inherit powers and memories, I get their personalities, their preferences, their affections and opinions and everything else that makes up a person. Most of the time, I'm pretty good at keeping all of that separate from me—from Taylor Hebert—but the best I can do is draw lines between myself and the others, and those lines can get pretty blurry."
"That's not the most reassuring thing I've heard," Emily said, dryly.
"It's not as bad as it sounds," Bumble replied, wincing. "I'm still in control, and I'm not about to go off killing people just because I get a little, uh, soupy."
"Soupy," she repeated.
"Soupy," Bumble confirmed.
Emily closed her eyes and asked the uncaring universe for strength. "I assume you're asking for permission to tell her your identity?"
"Ah, well." Bumble looked almost embarrassed. "You know that old saying about how it's better to ask for forgiveness?"
At that, Emily closed her eyes and fell back on some of the breathing habits she'd learned from her therapist after Ellisburg, when she'd kept having panic attacks. "You already told her," she said.
"I did, yes." Bumble looked remarkably unrepentant.
Emily considered it. She looked over the situation, turning it over and trying to figure out which of her plans and responsibilities had been affected by that change. "Should I assume that Brandish knows?"
"I asked Amy not to tell her," the cape said. "I don't know if she'll follow that request, but given what I know about their relationship it seems likely. I'm guessing that Glory Girl knows, though."
"Right," Emily said. "Technically speaking, your secret identity is your own business, and you may reveal it to whoever you desire so long as it doesn't put other hero's identities at risk. Moreover, given that Panacea is both an open cape and an independent hero in good standing, I don't anticipate there being any problems with her knowing your identity, nor in any connection you might seek to forge with her in your personal life." With her legal responsibility out of the way, Emily fixed the cape with a stern gaze. "That being said: in the future, if you wish to reveal your identity to someone, there is a specific procedure that we highly recommend members of the Wards or Protectorate follow."
"I understand, ma'am," Bumble said, nodding respectfully.
Emily felt one of her eyes twitch. "Completely unrelated, I've decided to assign you twenty hours of work with the PR department for this upcoming month, given the popularity you've experienced following your debut. Is that agreeable to you, Bumble?"
It was a soft punishment, but given that she couldn't technically punish the girl for telling the Dallon girl about her identity, it was as much as she could do. And honestly, she wasn't even sure if it was a punishment—most of the Wards hated PR, but from what she'd heard Bumble had something of a knack for it.
"That sounds acceptable, Director."
"Get out of my sight," Emily said.
"Ma'am," Bumble said, and with a faint pop of displaced air she was gone.
Emily stared at where the cape had been and let out a deep sigh. "Never should have let her and Mouse Protector meet," she mumbled to herself.
A part of her wanted to leave work, go to the nearest bar, and get black out drunk on cheap scotch until she didn't have to think about superheroes, supervillains, and the reincarnating serial killer that had little respect for authority and an unusual family connection to Brockton's resident miracle healer. Her shot kidneys wouldn't thank her for that, though, so she'd just have to settle with getting through the day and relaxing with a nice lemonade shandy and some old episodes of the Great British Bake Off.
Still, no matter how stressful or unpleasant it was to be the Director of the PRT ENE, she could admit that, at the very least, it was never boring.
a/n: it's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry about that. A combination of working on some other stories (check them out here and here) and wanting to make sure that I was able to properly handle everything going on this chapter. Hopefully I was able to do that effectively. Thank you for reading, and thank you especially for those who comment, like, and the special few who have given me awards---that feedback is extremely motivating for me. <3
-ThaviaLast edited: 2/8/2025 Award (Awarded ×1) ReplyReport9731ThaviaVex2/8/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter Fourteen - Butchering Coffee With Her Daughter New View contentThaviaVexShe/HerToday at 2:58 AMNewAdd bookmark#1,158a/n: So this was a long time coming. My muse needed a break from this story, and I've been focused on some other projects lately, including an original novel that I'm hoping to finish soon. But I've been chipping away at the next chapters for a while now, and I finally got something I'm happy enough with, so here we go. The chapter after this is finished as well, so expect that soon.
Vicky loved flying. That probably wasn't very surprising—after all, it wasn't at the top of everyone's dream power list for nothing—but even more than her cousins or Aunt, Vicky was in love with the act of flight. There was just something so utterly liberating about soaring through the air, letting all her petty daily struggles fall away with the ground below. Her forcefield even negated some of the other complaints she'd heard from other flyers, like the wind making it hard to keep their eyes open, or bugs being splattered against her face.
Amy, by contrast, did not love flying. Vicky knew that because she could always feel just how tense her sister would go in her arms whenever she flew her around. Not that Amy ever complained, but Vicky wasn't stupid. She didn't hate it, at least, or maybe just saw it as a necessary evil, but that made some sense. After all, Vicky's powers were made for flight, and there was ample evidence that parahuman powers interfaced directly with the brain to make their use seem intuitive and, often, pleasurable. She wondered, idly, how that must work for the Butcher—did the inheritance come with novel neuron growth to accommodate the new powers, or was the cape stuck with the neural interface for their original power? Could that contribute to why powers seemed to be weaker in subsequent Butchers, and perhaps even the mental instability? Did something about Taylor's original power have something to do with why she hadn't gone mad like the rest?
Vicky was honestly still trying to come to terms with the idea that sweet, dorky Taylor was also the Butcher. It just didn't compute. Well, there were some things that made some more sense. How Taylor seemed to know so much about so many random places and bits of trivia, or how she seemed to be more knowledgeable about Parahuman Studies than Vicky's own professors. And Taylor did move with a grace that at times came off as almost predatory, but that could just as easily been from dancing or something. But she'd been friends with Taylor since her transfer to Arcadia, and Vicky knew that the last Butcher had been killed several weeks before that.
And more than that, Vicky had been watching Bumble's career with no little degree of interest! She'd watched her introduction, seen the clips of the fight between Bumble and Circus, and had perused several videos of Bumble interacting with civilians in her cheerful and goofy way while out patrolling. She'd been more than a little impressed by the other cape, to be honest. Vicky wasn't really sure if she was more or less impressed now, knowing just how strong Bumble really was. After all, Vicky herself was more than aware of the learning curve that came with Brute powers, and the massive property damage that could accompany it.
Below her, Vicky saw the boardwalk rapidly approaching, and she angled into a descent. Amy held on tight, her arms wrapped around Vicky's shoulder. There was a small parking lot a few blocks off the boardwalk proper that was usually fairly vacant, and Vicky had taken to using it as a more private place to land. She flew down, twisting in mid-air as she got close, and setting down gently on the cracked asphalt. Amy slipped out of her arms and then unbuckled herself from harness that was attached to Vicky's chest. A moment later, Vicky was unstrapping the harness as well, slipping it into her shoulder bag. Just because Vicky could carry Amy safely and did it in emergency situations didn't mean that she didn't take precautions with her sister's life, after all.
"How are you feeling, Ames?" she asked, as the two of them made their way over toward the cafe where they'd agreed to meet Taylor.
"How the fuck do you think I'm feeling?" came the acerbic reply. Amy looked down at her feet, kicking a bit of asphalt across the road. "We're about to go and meet the Butcher, and oh yeah, she apparently has memories from my dead mom, who was also a villain."
"Sounds like you're anxious," Vicky offered.
Amy's glare could have stripped paint from the walls, but Vicky was used to her sister's more acerbic behavior. "Yes, I'm anxious, are you kidding me? How are you not anxious? Why are you even okay with us going here on our own without backup?"
And, well, Vicky couldn't really blame her. Amy had been gone for the two weeks when Taylor had first transferred in, and she hadn't exactly seen much of the girl outside of that. That didn't stop her from rolling her eyes. "We don't need backup, Amy. Taylor's nice, she's not going to hurt us or anything."
"Did you forget about the part where she has fourteen insane murderers in her head?" Amy said, the last part coming off as a hiss.
"No, I didn't. But I also didn't forget about the part where she's a Ward, and she hasn't hurt anyone since she inherited. And I'm pretty sure the PRT's been on the lookout for that kind of behavior." Vicky wrapped an arm around her sister, pulling her into a hug. "But I don't think that's really what's bothering you, is it? I mean, you yourself said she was telling the truth when she said she wanted to be a hero. And you still don't want to tell Mom."
Amy bristled for a moment before she slumped into Vicky's side. In a much quieter voice, she said, "I don't know what she wants from me."
"From what you said, it sounds like she wants to be family," Vicky said, matching her sister's tone.
Amy sighed. "I don't… I don't know how to be her family, not really."
And Vicky was about to say something about how that didn't make sense, because Amy had a family, but then she considered how her mom treated her sister and thought better of it. Instead, she said, "I'm pretty sure there's no guide-book on how to connect with someone carrying the imprint of your dead mother in their head," Vicky said, lightly. "Which also means there's no wrong way to do it."
Her sister snorted. "Bet I find it anyway," she muttered.
And that, well, Vicky couldn't let stand. She reached over and gave her sister a light noogie, ignoring Amy's yelp of irritation. "Don't talk about my sister like that," she admonished, lightly.
Amy grumbled a little, but now they were reaching a more populated area and neither of them felt comfortable carrying on with the conversation. Besides, it was really a retread of the conversation they'd been having for the past few days, ever since Amy had told her about Taylor in their kitchen. Vicky changed the subject, complaining about the bullshit homework assignments that Mr. Trellis had been assigning them in Econ. Her sister made vague sounds of agreement, but Vicky knew that if there was something Amy really wanted to talk about instead she would have brought it up.
A few minutes later, they had made their way to the coffee shop and entered, the bell ringing cheerfully above the door. And there was Taylor Hebert, sitting at one of the tables with her long legs crossed at the ankles and her hair falling around her shoulders, wearing the same comfortable t-shirt and jeans combo that she seemed to favor. She seemed to be just relaxing with a latte in front of her and an old-looking book in one hand. As they entered, she looked up and met Vicky's gaze with a little wave. Vicky waved back.
Vicky got a decaf carmel macchiato with two extra pumps of carmel, and she categorically refused to feel bad about it. Amy got a triple espresso, despite it being nearly 1pm, but apparently constant access to cheap hospital coffee had wrecked her sister's caffeine tolerance and also her taste buds, since she preferred her coffee black. It made Vicky shiver just thinking about it, to be honest. The café was pretty dead right now, only Taylor and a single barista, and ordering went fast. It was only a couple minutes before their orders were ready, and then they were sitting down across from someone who might very well be the most dangerous cape in the country, outside of the Triumvirate—and even then, there was some debate.
Taylor gave them a small smile as they sat down, sliding a small bookmark into place and set the book down. "Hello Vicky, Amelia."
"Hey Taylor!" Vicky shot back, because despite all the revelations this was still the friend she liked to geek out about parahuman studies with—and honestly, it made some sense now why Taylor was so knowledgeable on the subject. "Whatcha reading?"
The girl twisted the book around so Vicky could read the spine. "Frankenstein," she said, with a casual half-shrug. "I've found myself interested in the subjects of family and monsters, lately, and Frankenstein himself is an interesting case study."
And something about that caused Vicky's brow to furrow. She'd had to read Frankenstein back in middle school, and that wasn't right. "Wasn't Frankenstein the doctor, though? I thought the monster didn't have a name."
Taylor's grin turned mischievous. "Ah, you're correct that the creature doesn't have a name, at least not one that's explicitly given. Well, given he sees himself as Victor's son, in a way, it's not unreasonable that he would claim the family name as well. But there's a saying I'm fond of: knowledge is knowing that Frankenstein is not the name of the monster, but wisdom is knowing that Victor Frankenstein is the monster. Although really, both of them behave plenty monstrous during the story."
"I suppose you'd know about that," Amy said irritably, and Vicky winced. She knew that when Amy felt vulnerable, she tended to draw a spiky shell around herself, but it could be pretty abrasive for people who didn't know her.
"I would, yes," Taylor said, a complicated expression crossing her face. After a moment, she sighed and said, "You know, the hardest part of the inheritance wasn't all the voices or the violence—although that was horrible, don't get me wrong. The hardest part was realizing that almost every one of my predecessors had people they loved and cared about, passions and preferences. They might have been horrible people, but they were still terribly human."
"Almost every one?" Vicky asked, even if that wasn't really the point. Sue her, she was curious.
"Well, Two and Twelve were both diagnosed sociopaths, so they didn't exactly feel love like everyone else," the girl said with a shrug. "But the others… it's hard to reconcile how someone can take so much pleasure in death and destruction, and in so many other ways seem completely normal. It's an uncomfortable thing to realize."
Amy crossed her arms. "Aren't you worried about being overheard?"
Taylor just shrugged. "By who? The barista's been listening to an audiobook on psychology since she gave you your drinks, and I can track everyone within a thousand feet of us. I did a sweep for bugs, too, although I'm less confident about that—and if someone's got a tinkertech mic set up, then we're screwed to begin with. But that would be a risk pretty much everywhere, so."
Vicky took a moment to run through what she knew about the Butcher's power sets, trying to figure out how she could know all that. Her eyes widened. "Wait, did you get all that just from your bug control?"
Taylor brought up her hand in a 'so-so' gesture. "Partly, although I confirmed there were no other capes nearby with Devein's bloodsight and I checked for tech around us with Mason's matter manipulation." She gave the two of them a wan smile. "But that's not really what you want to talk about, is it? How are you two holding up? I know this is a lot to drop on you all of a sudden."
"I'm fine," Amy snapped, almost reflexively, before Vicky could reply.
Taylor's eyebrows rose. "You don't have to be, Amelia," she said, softly. "You can be hurt, or confused, or angry."
"Alright, then I'm pissed!" Amy said, slapping the table for emphasis. "Where the fuck do you get off trying to tell me what to do, or be my… my mom? You're younger than me! And why do you care, when you've never actually met me before, and meanwhile Carol doesn't—" she cut herself off.
Vicky felt frozen, like she always was when Amy brought up their mom. And Vicky knew that the way Mom treated Amy wasn't right, and she tried to do what she could to help her sister, but so often she just didn't know what would actually help Amy and what would make the whole situation worse.
Taylor didn't hesitate, though, reaching across the table and grabbing Amy's hand. It was both a gesture of comfort and an expression of intense vulnerability, putting her biology under the control of a biokinetic. Even if Taylor didn't know the entirety of Amy's powerset, she had to know that it would be easy enough to knock her out. But if she felt any fear, she didn't show it. "I don't know why Carol acts like she does," she said, her voice soft. "I don't know why she can't see what a brilliant daughter she has, why she can't see how much you're giving up to help other people. But I can tell you one thing: whatever is wrong between you two, that's on her, not you. She's the one who adopted you, and she's the one who agreed to be a parent. If she's not able to do that, then that's her fault."
And Vicky almost wanted to speak up, to defend her mom, but it wasn't like anything Taylor had said was wrong. Carol Dallon was an… okay mother to her, although even Vicky could admit she could be both controlling and neglectful at times, but she was really terrible to Amy. The constant pressure and criticism, the unending suspicion, the lack of consideration toward what Amy even wanted. It was bad.
Taylor was still talking. "If you ever need to get away, or you just need a break or something, then I'm here for you Amelia. My house isn't anything special, but my door will always be open to you. Always. And if you need anything else—protection, a good lawyer, help with your inheritance, even just a friendly shoulder to cry on—it's yours, Amelia. I promise."
Vicky looked over at her sister and felt her heart almost stop. Amy was crying, now, although she wasn't making any sounds. As soon as she noticed, the healer's face scrunched up into a mask of frustration and she scrubbed at her eyes with her free hand, but she made to effort to pull back from Taylor. "Yeah, alright," she managed, although she didn't quite manage her normal grouchy tone. "I'll let you know. But, uh, what was that about an inheritance?"
And with that, an almost mischievous smile slipped onto the other cape's face. "You didn't think that a crime lord like Marquis would let all his assets go down with him, did you?"
Amy's brow furrowed. "That's dirty money, though," she said.
Taylor shrugged. "Not technically—legally speaking, it's all just squeaky clean cash."
Vicky had to interject, then. "It doesn't matter if it's legally clean, it's still blood money! I've looked into Marquis—most of his money came from protection rackets and drug trade. You can't just expect Amy to take that without any question!"
Taylor gave her a look that felt at least a little judgemental, enough that Vicky recoiled a little, before she set her attention back on Amy. "I'm not saying what to do with it. If you want to, you could donate it, or try and reinvest into the areas of the Bay that have been most affected by organized crime. Hell, you could set it all on fire, although that might not be the most financially prudent decision." She spread her hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "The money is there, though, and it's yours. A birdcage sentence is treated as a death sentence for the sake of a last will and testament. Much of Marquis' wealth was seized at the time of his arrest, but he was careful to keep a certain percentage of his income completely unconnected from his criminal endeavors, and he had a good lawyer that kept that from being taken through asset forfeiture. There's just under nine million dollars in liquid cash, plus another fifteen million or so in bonds, stocks, business ownership, and real estate."
Vicky felt her mouth drop open. Beside her, Amy looked just as shocked. "Fifteen million?" she said, her voice coming out as almost a squeak.
"Did you know that you hold a majority ownership in Fugly Bobs?" Taylor asked, with a wry smile.
"I what?" Amy asked, and this time it definitely came out as a squawk.
Taylor just laughed. From her pocket, she pulled out several sheets of paper that had been folded several times over. "Here, this is an overview of the financials. It also has the number for Jason McGuire. He's the attorney that took care of Marquis' estate, and he'll be more than happy to help you out. You wouldn't ordinarily be able to access most of the money until you're 18, but there are some exceptions in place for capes. It's mainly to preserve secret identities of Wards and Protectorate members, but you've got some advantages as an open cape, since the laws weren't exactly written for your situation."
"What the fuck," Amy said, quietly, letting go of Taylor's hand to take the paper and look it over. and Vicky couldn't help but echo the statement. That was a lot of zeroes and a lot of different investments.
Taylor just shrugged, clearly unrepentant for all the chaos she was causing. "Anyway, that's not what you came to talk about, is it?"
"I don't know what I came to talk about," Amy replied. It sounded like she was aiming for irritated, but to Vicky's ears she just sounded kind of lost. "I don't even know why I'm keeping your secret from Carol and Aunt Sarah. I mean, you're the Butcher! I shouldn't feel… I dunno, safe around you!"
"I can't control that any more than you can control what powers you have," Taylor said, softly. "I was caught in the middle of a Teeth attack while in my civilian identity, with my Dad right there. I didn't even realize that the cape attacking me was the Butcher until she was dead and I suddenly had all these new voices and memories in my head. All we can do is play the hand that life dealt us, and that's what I'm trying to do now."
Vicky grimaced. She'd always had a problem with acting first and considering the consequences later, a problem that had gotten even worse since she'd developed superpowers. If she'd suddenly been attacked out of nowhere, especially if her family was at risk, she might well have lashed out with a lethal amount of force. And she had no illusions about her own ability to control a collective mass of voices that were all telling her to slaughter and bathe in the blood she spilled.
Taylor steepled her fingers. "On that note, though, there's something I want to talk to you about, actually. It might be a bit upsetting, but I think it's something we need to discuss."
Amy scoffed. "What, do you have any more life changing news to drop on me?"
A faint smile crossed Taylor's lips. "Not as such. I just have to ask you a question. Your power isn't really healing, is it?"
Amy went rigid right next to her, and Vicky wasn't much better. "What do you mean?" her sister asked, voice flat with anger and fear.
The other girl just sighed. "Pure healers don't exist, Amelia. Not really. Every known healer's power is at best an incidental effect of their true ability. Self-regeneration is relatively common, and there are some capes like Othala that can temporarily transfer that ability to others, but an ability that exclusively serves to reverse damage to other people? That would violate Selinsky's third maxim of power expression."
Vicky's brow furrowed as she tried to remember Selinsky's maxims. They were just observed characteristics of powers, deliberately kept relatively broad, but they were notable for having almost no exceptions, which was a rarity in the field of parahuman studies. "The third maxim is that every power must give the user an ability to cause more harm than they would be capable of without it, right?"
Taylor nodded. "And when you take that, and add just how powerful Marquis was and the nature of power inheritance, and the way that strikers tend to compensate for reduced range by drastically increased power on contact, well. It paints a picture, you could say."
Amy hadn't moved since Taylor had started on this topic. In fact, she barely seemed to even be breathing. Vicky reached over to put a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder, only for Amy to jump in surprise. Her eyes were wide and her pupils were blown, fear writ large across her face. Vicky turned back to Taylor, a surge of protectiveness giving her voice more of a bite than she intended. "Even if you were right, why do you want to talk about it? What do you get out of it?"
The other girl held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. "Nothing. Well, if my theory is correct on what your power actually is, I thought we might be able to do some tinkering together at some point, but that's not the reason I brought it up. Do you know Selinsky's fifth maxim and its corollary?"
Vicky paused, a little thrown by the question. "The fifth maxim is… the existence of a neurological drive toward power use, right? I don't know the corollary, though."
"That's the one," Taylor said with a nod. "In less academic speech, it's the observation that powers need to be used—failing to do so can result in restlessness, anxiety, depression, and in particularly bad situations psychosis, migraines, and a drastic reduction in impulse control. The corollary is that powers need to be used in their entirety. It's been particularly relevant for me, since I've got so many components to my power that each need a certain amount of attention. I actually have a theory that part of my predecessor's insanity was due to an inability to satisfy certain power usages."
"And what does this all have to do with me?" Amy asked, apparently having recovered enough to join the conversation again.
"If your power isn't just healing, but that's the only thing you're using it for, then you're likely suffering from power deprivation," Taylor said. "Have you experienced any of the symptoms I mentioned?"
Vicky wanted to say no, because of course she would notice if Amy was dealing with anxiety or depression, right? But Amy wasn't replying and her face had gone pale, and Vicky had a sinking feeling in her gut that she might have missed more than she thought when it came to her sister.
"Maybe," Amy admitted, after a moment. "I… I keep getting these urges, when I'm healing. I want to do more, to reinforce broken bones so they can't be broken again, or to create a better liver that won't, or to…"
"To do something worse, right?" Taylor said, her voice terribly understanding. "You want to twist them into a monster, and give them claws and fangs, or venom glands, or something like that?"
Amy flinched, pulling into herself, but after a moment she nodded. Vicky was floored—Amy hadn't mentioned anything about this at all. Was Amy seriously thinking about, what, going all Nilbog on her patients? But Vicky kept herself from saying anything, despite her instincts telling her to defend her sister. If Taylor was right, and the theory seemed sound, then this wasn't Amy herself wanting to do those things. It was power deprivation, pure and simple, and Amy was suffering from the psychosis part. That wasn't her fault, and comparing her sister to Nilbog or Bonesaw wouldn't help anybody.
"It's fine, Amy. I promise." The other girl's voice was so soft, so terribly sad but laced with far too much understanding to read as pity. "Trust me, if anybody understands what it's like to have power urges that disgust them, it's me."
"What kind of urges do you get?" Amy asked, in nearly a whisper.
"Oh my God, all kinds," Taylor said, shaking her head and giving a little rueful smile. "I want to painblast people whenever they piss me off, or rot their skin from their flesh. I want to drive people into a frenzy when they're in front of me in a line, and give the bigoted old man down my block visions of nightmares until he's a gibbering wreck. All my brute packages make me want to punch down trees and rip people in half, and Basilisk's power is always pushing me to turn things into horrible poisons."
"But you don't," Vicky said. She tried not to let on just how alarming it was to see her friend talk about killing people horribly with the same casual ease she would discuss a book she liked.
"I don't, no. Surprisingly enough, the PRT frowns on that kind of behavior." That got a little chuckle from both Vicky and Amy, which was probably what she'd been going for. "But to manage the urges, I have to use the powers in other ways. Frenzy's rage control can also be used to reduce panic in a crowd and sap anger from my enemies. Absinthe's hallucinations are useful for training my teammates to recognize master effects. I like to use Sepsis' decay to carve little statues in marble and steel. And for the pain blast—well, there's not much I can do with that, but I have some rats that I subject to it when I need to." At Vicky's frown, Taylor winced but didn't back down. "I know it's distasteful and I don't like causing pain, but it's necessary. Otherwise I'd have to deal with power withdrawal, and that could be far worse."
"But I don't have multiple powers," Amy said, narrowing her eyes. "I've just got the one, and I use it all the time."
Taylor shook her head. "You use it for one thing, and that's not what it wants to do. You've got some flavor of biokinesis, right? I mean, I've looked at the things you've been able to heal, and curing cancer or fixing genetic disorders isn't something you can do with any kind of simple regeneration or harm-reversion ability."
Slowly, reluctantly, Amy nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I can control any biology that I touch, although I can't generate matter from nothing, not like…" Not like Marquis, she was going to say. A part of Vicky thought it was reckless to just be telling Taylor this, but then again she did trust the girl. And it wasn't like she hadn't put together most of the pieces already.
At Amy's confession, Taylor just nodded. "That's about what I suspected. Using that kind of power just for healing is the power equivalent of getting in a fighter jet and just driving it around the tarmac. I'm sure it does some for your urges, but it's never gonna be enough."
And finally Amy snapped, because that was how she always reacted to being made vulnerable. "So what, should I just abandon the hospital? Let all those people die that I could have saved, just because I'm too fucked up to just do my stupid fucking job?"
Taylor reached out again, taking Amy's hand in her own, and now that she knew Amy was a true biokinetic that seemed to express even more trust. "No, Amelia. I'd never ask that of you. But can I just ask—how much of the time you're at the hospital are you actually treating fatal injuries?"
Amy squirmed a little but didn't let go. "I dunno," she muttered. "Maybe four, five hours per week?"
Taylor nodded. "Five hours per week, out of thirty hours there. And even then, how many of those people would survive with medical care without you?"
Vicky started. "Thirty hours?" she asked. That seemed like way too much—wasn't Amy only supposed to be doing like ten hours a week? Although she could admit that she hadn't exactly been tracking Amy's work hours, and her sister had a habit of getting there early and staying late if she could get away with it. And neither Amy or Taylor seemed to be reacting to that number, so maybe it was real. God, how much of Amy's struggle had she missed?
"Like… maybe half of them?" Amy replied, shrugging a little. "But I mean, if I can help, I should, right?"
Taylor nodded. "Of course you should. But right now, you're burning yourself out, and you're just making your power deprivation even worse."
"So what do I do?" Amy asked, tears in her eyes now, and Taylor's expression went so fond and gentle that Vicky couldn't help but feel like an intruder in this moment.
"What do you think you could make, if you gave your powers free reign?" she asked, softly. "What kind of medicine could you create? What kind of improved sutures or bandages could you tinker up? Could you make something that seeks out cancerous cells and destroys them, or converts them back to healthy cells? How much could you do, Amelia, if you spent less time destroying yourself to heal people one by one, and spent more time working with your power to save millions at once?"
And Amy, she looked like she'd just had a religious revelation. "I could, uh," she said, blinking rapidly. "I could create a moss that would adhere tightly to the wound and promote surface blood clotting while also producing an antibiotic to stop infection, and it would be able to stay in place on chronic wounds without needing to be changed frequently. It wouldn't even be hard, I'd just need the biomass—"
And almost before she finished speaking, a small stream of flies seemed to emerge from beneath the table, landing in Amy's hand. They started to liquify, which was deeply disturbing and strangely fascinating for Vicky to watch. Soon there was a soupy puddle of something brown on Amy's hand, and then it started to change, small purple tendrils growing up and interweaving. A few moments later and there was a purple patch of something that was unmistakably moss sitting on Amy's hands.
Amy let out a laugh, sounding half-incredulous and half-delighted. And as much as it was nice to hear that from her sister, it also sent a pang through Vicky's heart because when was the last time she had heard her sister laugh like that?
"That was so easy," she said, in an awed whisper. "And it was so fun! And I can already see ways that it could be improved, other applications of a similar moss. And I could mess with the growth rate, too, so it would regrow rapidly as long as it has the right nutrients, that way it could be mass produced. Although I'd have to do some testing, and I'd have to be careful that it wouldn't result in increased antibiotic resistance—" She cut herself off, looking up to see Taylor and Victoria both watching her. She flushed, but the smile didn't leave her face.
"If you want, I can make sure you get resources and a proper lab," Taylor said. "It's standard procedure for affiliated heroic tinkers, and you definitely qualify. You'd probably need to have some oversight and make sure that your creations aren't harmful, but I imagine you'd want to make sure of that anyway."
"Yeah," Amy said, quickly. "Yeah, I would. I mean, I've had nightmares about accidentally creating a plague or something. But a lab would be incredible."
"That wouldn't be ideal, no," Taylor replied, with a smile. "And from what I know about Carol Dallon, it might be a bit of a struggle to get her to agree to this, but Jason McGuire can help you out there too. He's a lawyer, so he should know how to talk to your guardian in a way she understands."
"That would be great," Amy said, not looking away from the moss. "If I could get this approved, then… did you know that the fatality rate for people with chronic wounds is around 70% over the course of 5 years? Most of that comes from infections that set in. If they were wearing this instead, though, that problem could just be gone. Just like that. And I never even thought about it, because it's biotinkering and that's…"
She trailed off, but Taylor seemed to understand. "It's scary, I know. But like I said earlier, I've been thinking a lot on the nature of monsters. I mean, if Legend or Alexandria or Eidolon wanted to, they could each cause destruction and death on the scale of an Endbringer. But that doesn't make them monsters, anymore than the existence of Bonesaw or Nilbog makes you a monster for being able to modify biology."
Amy nodded, and if she was blinking away a few tears, well. Both Taylor and Vicky pretended not to see it, because they didn't need to put Amy back on the defensive.
"Oh, and Vicky?" Taylor said suddenly, as if she'd just remembered something.
Vicky dragged her attention away from her sister's face with some difficulty. Seeing Amy looking truly happy was such a rare thing that she'd wanted to commit it fully to memory. "Yeah?" she managed.
"I'm got some unofficial PR time lined up for revealing my identity to you two, and I had an idea for it that would work better with some more capes. I wanted to know if you'd be interested in joining in?"
Vicky's instinctive reaction was to say 'no,' because as a rule of thumb New Wave didn't want to get involved in the PRTs PR campaigns. But Taylor was clearly dedicated to helping Amy, so she figured the least she could do is hear Taylor out. And as Taylor explained her idea, Vicky couldn't help but grin widely, because it sounded way more fun than she'd expected."
"Oh fuck yeah," she said. "I'm so in."