All Alone [Worm AU]

[Ack]

Events in the alley go badly wrong ...

1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.
2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, then I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, then I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.
3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.


Alone, alone, all all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea.
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
- from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Index
Part One: Loss (below)
Part Two: Perspectives
Part Three: All in the Name
Part Four: Bad Decisions
Part Five: It All Goes Wrong
Part Six: The Consequences of Failure
Part Seven: A New Lease on Death
Part Eight: What Zombie Apocalypse?
Part Nine: Determinations
Part Ten: New Kid on the Block
Part Eleven: Learning Curve
Part Twelve: Revelations
Part Thirteen: Luck is in the Eye of the Beholder
Part Fourteen: Facing Facts

Omake: Futures

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part One: Loss

Freezeframe.

A blue and white globe, with hints of green and brown, slowly turning in the void. Earth, or at least a version thereof. This particular version, known as 'Earth Bet' to its inhabitants, is situated on the far slope of the probability curve, home to strange and unusual happenings. Infected by multidimensional spacegoing parasites, it is Patient Zero for a local outbreak of parahuman activity.

Zoom in.

On its moon, a partly finished base lies desolate and abandoned, the erstwhile architect no longer of a mind or will to complete it. In orbit, a white multi-winged figure like a fractured snowflake; even those with telescopes do not look too closely. Closer to the surface, a golden figure, white-clad, saviour and destroyer in one, does good for want of a better purpose.

Zoom in.

This nation is relatively new on the scene, although the same cannot be said for the continent upon which it was founded. Since land became distinct from ocean, billions of years past, its component parts have formed jigsaw pieces of larger landmasses, broken apart and reformed endlessly by the relentless forces of continental drift. It is only relatively recently that it has come together as it is now, emerging from the encroaching waters of the world-ocean, and shrugging off the last of the northward-retreating glaciers.

And yet, with humanity inhabiting it for thousands of years and giving it no single encompassing name, it took imperialistic invaders from a distant island empire to conquer it and give it that name. Then, mere decades later, a war with the mother country gave it another name, which it has borne for an absurdly short span of its total history; the United States of America.

Zoom in.

In the northeastern corner of this nation, where the states are tiny and jostle for elbow room, lie six of the thirteen original states, immortalised upon the flag in blood-red stripes. These six are collectively known as New England; two are indeed named after the regions in far-away England from which those who originally settled them hailed. One is New York, famous – or perhaps infamous – for being home to one of the largest, busiest cities in the world. The other is New Hampshire.

Zoom in.

Upon the meagre stretch of coastline allotted to New Hampshire lies a city not quite like any other. For reasons lost to history, its name is Brockton Bay, rather than the more prosaic Portsmouth, posited once upon a time by nostalgic Englishmen. For a city of its modest population – just over three hundred thousand at last census – it is home to a startlingly large number of parahumans. In fact, with more than fifty known local capes, and more than a few unknown, the Brockton Bay metropolitan area is home to the seventh highest concentration of capes per capita in the continental United States.

Unfortunately, there are more villains than heroes in Brockton Bay, and have been for quite some time. This gives rise to villain-led gangs, who often act with impunity in broad daylight. Sometimes, this leads to tragic consequences.

Zoom in.

A through-way, somewhere between a narrow street and a wide alleyway. A dumpster at one end, lacking wheels. Butted up against the dumpster, an expensive-looking car; last year's model. At the other end of the alley, blocking the way, a white van. Crouched on the roof of the car, a dark-cloaked figure. Between the car and the van, several people.

All but one of these people wear the colours of the ABB, a local Asian-centric gang. It is headed by a parahuman called Lung, which means Dragon in his mother's tongue.

Focus.

The one exception is female, caucasian, teenage, red-haired. Her name is Emma. Up until a few moments ago, she was happy, safe, secure, riding in her father's car. Now, she is kneeling on rough asphalt, surrounded by hostile, sneering teenage criminals. One of them, also a girl, is wearing her jacket, and is tracing the tip of a knife over her face. Emma's mouth is full of her own hair; she has been told by the girl that she must eat the hair and then choose which part of her face is to be mutilated.

She has just seen the cloaked figure, a girl, couched on top of the car. Watching, not acting. Not helping her. She is pleading with her eyes, not able to understand why the girl on top of the car isn't moving, isn't coming to her aid.

Focus.

The vigilante crouches on the car roof. Her name is Sophia. None of the gang members have seen her yet; they are concentrating on their victim. She relishes the moment which is yet to come, when they see her, realise the danger they are in. The terror they will feel. Fear of her, the predator.

She stares at the redhead, looking for a sign of defiance, of struggle. If the girl fights back, then she will intervene before this goes too far. The girl will have earned her reprieve by proving that she's not a victim. Shadow Stalker has no time for victims.

Focus.

The Asian girl is called Yan. She likes the jacket; it's much better than any of her other clothes. And this girl, this rich white bitch, was just wearing it around, like an accessory. She doesn't appreciate it. She doesn't deserve it.

Yan is working herself into a righteous anger, so that she can do what she needs to do. She's not much older than this girl, if she's any older at all, and she's tired of being treated like a plaything by the men, tired of being nothing more than their whore. She's made it clear before now that she wants to be a proper member, and this is her chance.

So if she has to carve on the girl a bit, make her into an object lesson as to why you don't come into ABB territory without paying toll – although the phrase 'object lesson' isn't really a part of her vocabulary – then that's what she's going to do.

Not that she's got any intention of killing her, of course. Just the face. Fuck her over a bit, just like life's fucked Yan over up till now. And if it means she gets to wear the colours for real, to earn the respect that a proper ABB member deserves, then fuck this bitch. A small part of her is wondering, as she watches the redhead try to chew on her own hair, what part of her face she'll choose to sacrifice.

Focus.

In the car, a frantic father is held at bay by grinning ABB members, as they rifle the glove compartment for whatever they can loot. They don't know about the cloaked figure atop the car either. They will soon learn.

Face-down in the passenger footwell of the car, unheeded and unnoticed, a discarded mobile phone has been connected to the 9-1-1 network for some moments now. From the noises she has heard, the operator has decided that something is badly wrong. She has dispatched police and emergency services. They will arrive far too late.

Action.

The first thing that happens is that the gang member holding Emma's right arm notices that she is staring fixedly toward the car. He looks in that direction and sees the cloaked figure of the vigilante on the roof of the car. Beginning to shout a warning, he loosens his grip on Emma's arm.

Reacting without thinking, Emma jerks her arm free of his hands, and viciously elbows him in the testicles. He screams in pain and shoves her away from him.

Unfortunately for her, another gang member is holding her left arm, so she can't go that way. She can only pivot forward. Yan was tracing the point of the knife over Emma's jawline as she tried to swallow the mouthful of hair, and is taken by surprise; the knife slides into Emma's throat with very little resistance indeed.

Emma doesn't even feel it at first; the knife is so sharp that the cut nerves barely react. But then Yan panics – I didn't want to kill her! - and tries to pull it out again, causing farther damage. Emma pulls away, twisting her neck, and the knife blade slices out through her carotid artery.

Blood sprays out, spattering over Yan and her jacket both; her knife arm is red from wrist to shoulder. Released by the second gang member, Emma slumps backward, her hands coming up to try to stem the flow of blood.

Focus.

Shadow Stalker comes off the car in a delayed reaction. She sees the redheaded girl falling, blood spraying, and she is incensed. A crossbow bolt whickers through the air, strikes the back of the neck of the girl holding the knife. That girl opens her mouth with a puzzled expression, allowing a sharp metal tongue to protrude from between her lips, before she drops to her knees and flops lifelessly to one side.

Focus.

Emma, lying on the ground, watches the fight, even as blood pumps from between her fingers and her sight grows dim. She does not know the vigilante's name, and now she never will. But she moves so gracefully, so smoothly, delivering brutal blows and slashing her foes with hand-held arrows. Emma wants to cheer her on, but she can't breathe, can't do anything. Her hands are falling away from the horrific wound in her throat.

Focus.

The last of the ABB gang members is down, either dead, dying or unconscious. Sophia approaches the redhead. She's lying in a huge pool of her own blood, so it's not hard to understand that she's either dead or not far off it. Sophia crouches, and takes hold of one of the girl's hands, squeezes it. Imagines that she feels a response, sees a flicker in the dimming eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I should have done something sooner. I'm sorry."

She can't think of anything else to say. This girl was a fighter, and Sophia failed her. It's not a feeling she likes.

When she stands up, the redhead's eyes are still open, but the blood has ceased to pump from her throat; the girl is dead. Leaning forward, she passes her hand over the girl's eyes, closing them for the last time.

"You were a fighter," she murmurs. It is her highest accolade.

Focus.

By the time Alan Barnes climbs out of the car, looking around dazedly, he finds that he is late to the party. The members of the group that attacked them are strewn around, sporting ghastly injuries. He ignores them, stumbles to where Emma is lying crumpled on the ground. Her eyes are closed; there is blood all over her front.

"Emma!" he croaks. "Wake up!" Perhaps she is only unconscious. "Emma, please wake up." He shakes her again.

Focus.

When the police and ambulance arrive on scene, he is still shaking her, and pleading for her to wake up. When they break the news that she is dead, has been dead for some time, he has to be restrained.

Every single ABB member in the alleyway is dead; forensic examination suggests that Shadow Stalker is responsible for at least half the corpses, as they have been killed with crossbow arrows. This information is duly passed on to the PRT.

Focus.

When Shadow Stalker gets home, she carefully peels her glove off. The blood of the red-haired girl, the fighter who died in front of her, is still on it. She sits, looking at it, for a long time.

Guilt is not something that she is used to feeling, and so when her mother calls her down for dinner, she shrugs it off, washes the blood from the glove, and puts it away with the rest of her costume.

<><>​

In every movie Taylor had ever watched with a funeral scene, it was at least a cloudy day, usually rainy. Funerals were gloomy, sad affairs, and the weather reflected this. A bright, cheerful day with bright sunshine and birds singing from every tree was not what she considered to be that sort of day, and yet, this was the day that they were burying Emma.

She walked toward the gravesite, wearing the same black dress that she had worn for her mother's funeral, just a year previously. The ache in her heart was back, the same familiar bone-deep hurt that comes from losing someone close and irreplaceable. Her father walked alongside her, his lanky frame somehow making his black suit look cheap and shabby. She held his hand; he squeezed it encouragingly.

Emma's other friends had attended, as had their parents. Alan Barnes was there, looking somehow shrunken, reduced. On either side of him were his wife, Zoe, and his daughter Anne. His arms were about them, and they seemed to be supporting him as much as he was supporting them.

Danny approached Alan, and they shook hands. Taylor didn't know Anne very well, but she offered a few words of sympathy. Zoe was crying, had been crying all morning from the looks of it, but then, so too had Taylor. Taylor and Zoe did not need to speak to each other; each knew without words how the other felt. They hugged, each comforting the other. More tears flowed.

"I – I thought you were at nature camp," Alan Barnes said to Taylor.

"I was," she replied. "When I heard, I got Dad to come and pick me up."

He shook his head. "You didn't have to do that."

Tears were flowing down her cheeks again. "Yes, I did. It's Emma."

He folded her in his arms, a strong bear-hug; she held him in return. "Thank you for coming."

The hearse approached, picking its way between the gravestones on the path set out for it. When it came to a halt, the rear door hinged upward, and the coffin rolled out a little way.

Taylor stepped back, but Alan Barnes gestured to her and Danny. "Come on."

"But we're not -" began Danny hesitantly.

"You are now," Alan told him firmly, more firmly than he would have been capable of, twelve hours previously. "You made the effort to be here, and you're as much family as anyone but Zoe and Anne and me are. Come on."

And so, Taylor found herself in the position of carrying her best friend's coffin to the grave. Alan and Danny took the front positions, Taylor was herself opposite Anne, and Zoe was opposite a friend of Emma's, called Diane. It wasn't a physically difficult task, as the weight was split between six people, four of them adults, but it brought the reality home to her; Emma is dead. She's in this coffin. We're going to bury her.

Carefully, they placed the coffin on the straps over the six foot deep hole, then stepped back. Taylor's hand found Danny's again, and they stood like that as the priest approached the grave. He said the words that were said at occasions like this. Taylor tuned him out, as she had noticed someone standing off a way, half-behind a tree, but definitely watching the service. She couldn't see who it was, but she didn't think that she knew them.

Once the words had been spoken, the blessings had been given, Taylor stepped forward and threw a handful of rose petals on to the coffin as it slowly descended into the grave. Danny did likewise, scooping them from the bowl that was being passed around. The final blessings were given, and people started to drift away.

Alan approached Danny once more. "We're having a memorial at our house. You're welcome to come." Please come, his eyes begged.

Danny nodded. "Of course we will."

Briefly, the two men hugged. There was nothing unmanly about it; they were both strong men who had undergone travail, and if one man cannot hug another man for comfort, then there is something wrong with the world.

"Taylor and I'll be staying just a little while," Danny ventured, gesturing in a particular direction.

"Oh, of course," Alan replied, understanding perfectly. He took a deep breath. "Is it okay if … if we come along?"

"Of course, of course," Danny agreed. "We've … we've got flowers in the car."

So they backtracked to the car and got the flowers out, and made the trek to where Taylor's mother had been interred the year before. The flowers in the vase were dead, and Taylor removed them, then filled the vase with water from a bottle before Danny placed the fresh flowers in it.

"Red gardenias, her favourite," murmured Alan. Taylor nodded, tearing up all over again.

Taylor and Danny stood, side by side, silently communing with whatever they recalled of Annette Rose Hebert, while Alan Barnes stood with his wife and remaining child, off to the side.

And then Alan went to his knees and began to speak. "Anne-Rose, we were friends before you passed. My Emma's dead, but you probably know this by now. So if you could find her for me, for us, and show her the way, I'd …" He paused to swallow a lump in his throat. "You were almost as much a mother to her as Zoe was. Be a mother for her, now that she's away from us. Please."

He couldn't speak any more, as he broke down bawling. Anne went to her knees beside him, and Zoe on the other side. Taylor was holding her father and crying just as hard; the tears leaking on to her shoulder told her that he wasn't holding his tears back either.

Eventually, the tears dried up, and Alan stood up with his wife and daughter. He shook hands with Danny one more time, while Taylor hugged Zoe and then Anne. Danny hugged Zoe, and then the five of them walked back through the cemetery to where the few cars still awaited.

Just as she got into her father's car, Taylor looked around, but the silent watcher was nowhere to be seen.


End of Part One

Part Two

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Two: Perspectives


The Vigilante

I frowned as I held the small pair of binoculars to my eyes. I didn't understand the impulse that had me out here, in the cemetery, watching the funeral of a girl whom I had never gotten to know, who had never even spoken to me. I had tried to put it out of my mind, tried to go on. But late at night, when I closed my eyes, hers looked back at me, the light dying out of them as her fingers twitched in mine.

At the time, I had thought that she was acknowledging my words, accepting my apology. But what if she'd wanted to blame me for what happened to her? What if she died believing that I'd failed her?

I didn't like that, not at all. She had been a fighter; she had fought back, despite the odds, despite having no powers, and she had died as a direct result. I had waited until she fought back; I had not acted until then. I could have acted first, could have taken out the girl with the knife, could have saved her. But I had wanted to see if she was a fighter, if she was worth saving.

And she had been. But I hadn't been able to save her. By waiting, I may have had some small responsibility for the fact that she was now dead.

Had I killed her? I didn't know. I didn't even know how to find out. I couldn't go back and change matters. For that matter, I didn't even know what I was doing here, at the funeral. But ever since I saw the obituary notice in the paper, recognised the face, found out her name, I had known that I needed to be here, to observe, to do her the respect of turning up. Recognising the fact that Emma Barnes had lived and died, and that I had had something to do with the latter.

I focused the binoculars, frowning again; this time, it was because of something I had seen. Emma's father was easy to pick out; a big man with red hair. Her older sister, likewise; her hair was more auburn than actually red, but her face had some of Emma's bone structure. Her mother; brunette, pretty enough to have contributed to Emma's striking looks.

But there were others, not related to the family as far I could tell; no congruence of features. The girl, tall and skinny with a long, serious face, hugged Emma's mother, and then her father.

There was something there. These people, father and daughter, stood by the Barnes family as the hearse approached. And then they helped carry the coffin to the grave itself. They're definitely close.

I thought about it, as the people began to disperse. Emma would have been about this girl's age. If they were friends, then maybe I could find out from her what Emma had really been like, if her fighting back was just a fluke, or if she really had been that strong.

As they went back toward the cars, I drifted from tree to tree, hoping to get close enough to get a good look at a licence plate. But then they retrieved something from one of the cars, and moved back into the cemetery; I had to duck behind a gravestone so they wouldn't see me.

Earlier, the skinny girl had looked my way, and I thought she'd made me. But she'd neither pointed me out nor done anything about me, so I shelved the idea and kept watching. However, I was a lot more careful as I ghosted after them toward wherever they were going.

They congregated around another gravestone; the girl and her father replaced some flowers in a vase, and Emma's father looked as though he were praying. I wished that I'd spent the time to learn how to lip-read; binoculars can only tell you so much.

When they were gone, I went and checked out the gravestone. The name on it was Annette Rose Hebert, and she had died the year before. The birth and death dates put her at just about the right age to have a teenage daughter, so now I had a name to go on with.

<><>​

The Best Friend's Father

I pulled the car to a halt and set the parking brake. Turning to Taylor, I put my hand on hers. She looked at me, her eyes still red-rimmed. Emma's death, coming so soon after she had been talking on the phone to her on that fateful afternoon, had really hit her hard. Almost as hard as Anne-Rose's death had hit her, I imagined. Probably as hard as her mother's passing had hit me.

"You okay?" I asked.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Not really," she admitted. "It just … it just didn't seem real, you know? Like with Mom. Not until the burial."

I nodded. Oh yes, I know that one. "It never does, not until you can't ignore it any more."

She stared at me, her eyes huge and tragic behind her glasses. "When does it stop, Dad? When does it stop hurting?"

Popping my seatbelt, I gathered her into a hug; she sniffled into my shoulder. "It just … fades," I replied inadequately. "Eventually, you find yourself just … living again." Not that I could talk; after Anne-Rose, I went totally to pieces. It was Emma and her family who took care of Taylor after I ceased to function as a person, until Alan had some stern words with me.

Emma and her family.

Oh god, who's going to help Taylor through this?

I felt utterly unsuited for the task. When it came to dealing with grief, I had not made a good showing. I had folded like cheap tissue paper.

"Emma was just … there." She sniffled again. "She was always there."

I knew exactly how she felt. "Look, if you don't want to … I can tell Alan that you're not feeling well … "

I could tell the exact moment when she decided hell with it, I feel like crap but I'll do it anyway. Her shoulders straightened, and she sat up in her seat and adjusted her glasses. "No. Emma would, for me."

That had the sound of a mantra. If Emma can do this, then I can do this. I didn't begrudge her it; if it helped her get through the day, if it kept her memory of her best friend alive, then I had absolutely no problem with it. "Yeah, kiddo, she probably would."

That earned me a watery smile; we got out of the car and locked the doors. Even in Alan's area of town, you didn't tempt fate. There were enough cars here that we had to walk a little way. Taylor's hand crept into mine, and we walked side by side; I adjusted my pace to hers.

As we came up to the front gate, there were people standing on the porch whom I vaguely recognised. Taylor's steps slowed, and her grip on my hand tightened. We paused at the gate. "You okay?" I asked quietly.

<><>​

The Best Friend

He'd asked me that before. "No," I answered honestly. "I don't know if I can do this."

Concern was evident in his eyes. "We'll just say hello, make our excuses and leave. We don't have to stay if you don't feel like it."

Emma would.

The thought straightened my spine; I took a deep breath. "Let's go in."

I felt rather than saw his brief, surprised glance, but then I reached out and opened the front gate. We went up the path and climbed the steps; the front door was open. Dad nodded to the people on the porch; they nodded back, murmured solicitations. I doubted they even knew who I was; friends of Mr Barnes, no doubt, showing up to prove they cared. Which they didn't, not really, but that was how it was done. Everyone pretended, everyone knew they were pretending, and they pretended they didn't know.

We entered the house, and all of a sudden, I was reminded. All around me, it seemed, there were greatly enlarged photographs of Emma. Riding her first bicycle, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake, nervously astride a horse for the first time. Looking around, I saw her life in pictures; for quite a few of them, I had been there, and I remembered the occasion. Sometimes, I was even in the photo. One or two of the others, I had taken myself. That put a catch in my throat; they've used my photos to remember Emma by.

The largest photo, taken at her middle school graduation party, showed her vibrantly alive, ready to take on the world. It sat on its own little table, flanked by vases holding extravagant bunches of flowers. I knew, as Dad did, that it had originally been a double photo, with me in the frame as well; in fact, the hand on her shoulder was mine. I wasn't upset at the Barneses for cropping it to show Emma alone; after all, I was not the one being memorialised. Besides, it was a really great photo of her. If only I could focus on it without my eyes beginning to swim in tears.

"Hi." It was Mr Barnes. He handed Dad and me plastic cups. "Thanks for coming over."

It was almost as though he was talking about a Saturday afternoon get together in the back yard … I looked at his face, saw his eyes. No, he wasn't thinking like that at all. I knew the pain in his eyes; I had seen it in mine, in the mirror, all too often. First Mom, and now Emma. I had seen it in Dad, too, after Mom died. Mr Barnes was only barely holding it together.

"Thanks." I took the cup, sipped at it. Fruit cordial. Emma would have made a smartass comment about it not tasting like any natural fruit in existence.

All of a sudden, it tasted sour in my mouth. There was bile in the back of my throat. I placed the cup unsteadily on the table. "Can I … can I be excused?"

"Of course," Mr Barnes told me. I didn't look at him or Dad, but I felt their concerned gazes on me as I climbed the stairs, as hastily as I dared.

When I got to the bathroom, I didn't throw up, but from the feel of it, it was a near thing. After a while, I got up from where I was kneeling before the toilet and splashed water on my face. A couple of handfuls of water eased the queasy feeling in my throat, and I put my glasses back on. Looking in the mirror, I decided that if I ever wanted to make the pale Goth scene, I was in there with a chance. My face looked almost gaunt, and my cheekbones had never been more prominent.

Not that I wanted prominent cheekbones. I just wanted my best friend back.

Wandering from the bathroom, I found myself pushing open Emma's bedroom door. On the threshold, I hesitated just for a moment, then I steeled myself and stepped inside.

They hadn't touched a thing, as far as I could tell. Her bed was even partially unmade, from the last time she had slept in it. The room had that very slightly musty smell, as of a place that has been undisturbed for a few days. I paused; they had taken some things. A couple of the stuffed animals that normally had pride of place on the shelf above her bed, a picture of me that normally rested on her dresser, her prized Alexandria action figure, the one that I had always coveted, all gone.

She must have been buried with them, I figured. I wished that I had gotten back earlier, in time to attend the church service, time to get a gift for her myself, to put in her coffin. I found myself tearing up all over again, and I sat down on the bed. Here, in this room, she was far more present than when her coffin was being lowered into the cold ground. I half-expected her to open the door and walk in with a comment about how she could improve my wardrobe so much if I'd just let her try.

Kicking off my sandals, I rolled on to the bed, pulled the covers over me. I had slept in this bed almost as much as in the bed in the spare room. In this bed, Emma and I had watched movies and read books and eaten snacks (and been chewed out for leaving crumbs in the bed) and clung to each other as thunderstorms rattled the windowpanes outside.

I was here now, and she wasn't. I had never felt so lonely in all my life.

Softly, I began to cry all over again, my tears soaking into the pillow.

<><>​

The Vigilante

I don't normally worry about doing the detective thing, but I'm not stupid, and I can use a computer. The library had them, so I got online and set about looking up Annette Hebert. It wasn't even difficult; almost immediately, I had a hit on a newspaper article, dated August of two thousand and eight. A woman by the name of Annette Rose Hebert had been out driving when she had gone off the road and crashed; single car accident. It was thought that she had been texting on her phone at the time. She was survived by her husband Daniel and her daughter Taylor.

I looked at the photo given; a tall, slender woman, with long curly hair. Thinking back to the skinny girl at the graveside, I could easily see her in this woman. That settled it; I knew who these people were. I could find them. If Taylor had been Emma's friend, then I wanted to talk to her.

Now all I had to do was figure out what I wanted to say.

<><>​

The Sister

I paused at the top of the stairs; I had been about to go to the bathroom and freshen up, but then I heard muffled sobbing, and saw that Emma's door was open. Dad hadn't been able to go in there after … well, after. Mom had had to venture in herself, to get those things that Emma had loved the most, and she had shut the door firmly afterward. I didn't know why she hadn't locked it; maybe it was so we didn't lock Emma's memory away from us or something.

There was no real mystery about who it was; I went to the door and pushed it all the way open. Taylor was lying in Emma's bed, covers pulled over herself, curled up into a sobbing ball. I kind of understood; as sisters, Emma and I had always been reasonably close, but nothing like the friendship she had with Taylor.

I had never gotten to know Taylor really well myself; she was a few years younger than me, and she was first and foremost Emma's friend, but we'd chatted on more than one occasion, and she had always struck me as a bright and cheerful spirit. Of course, when talking with Taylor, one had to work hard to get a word in edgewise, but she was so enthusiastic and bubbly that it wasn't hard to forgive her that. And her chatter was never brainless or air-headed; she was smart.

Thinking back, Taylor had been good for Emma; she didn't idolise her, didn't worship the ground she walked on. She gave Emma the truth straight up, always. She kept Emma's feet on the ground, where others would have told her whatever she wanted to hear. Of course, Emma was also good for Taylor; being a bit of a loner and a bookworm, Taylor could quite easily have squirrelled herself away in a quiet corner far more often than she did, were it not for my sister and her ability to get Taylor outside and having fun.

I was already feeling the hole in my life where Emma used to be; I could only begin to guess how hard it was on Taylor, this coming so soon after she lost her mother.

Entering the room was like parting an invisible spider-web, or breaking the surface of a pool of still water. Everything on the other side looked subtly different. This room was Emma's, and her personality was stamped upon every inch of it.

Walking over to the bed, I sat down and put my hand on where the covers mounded up over Taylor's shoulder. All I could really see of her was the spill of her hair on the pillow, where the covers had been pulled over her head. Slowly, I pulled the covers back; she kept crying, and I rubbed her shoulder gently. Human contact; we all need it, whether we know it or not.

When she had run down for the moment, she turned her head and looked up at me. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What for?" I asked gently. "This was your space as much as Emma's. I know she wouldn't begrudge you this."

"Yeah, but I should have asked permission."

I shrugged. "Permission given. I dunno that I ever saw you as a little sister exactly – one was bad enough – but I know Mom and Dad considered you almost that close."

She pushed the covers back farther and sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Thanks," she murmured. "I always thought you were kind of cool. I never had a big sister. I hope we weren't too annoying to you."

I had to smile, though this was a day where smiles were rare. "You were both kind of bratty, but it was a cute kind of bratty, so I never had much of a problem with it." I put an arm around her and hugged her to me; she leaned in, and we sat for a few moments, content to ignore the outside world, drawing comfort from the contact.

Then a thought struck me, and I let her go. "Come on, I've got something for you."

Pulling her feet from under the covers, she looked at me curiously. "What?"

I grinned, feeling good that I was able to do so. "You'll see."

<><>​

The Best Friend

Slipping my feet back into my sandals, I followed Anne to her room; when I hesitated on the threshold, she gestured me inside. "That first night," she explained, "I went into her room. I knew Mom and Dad would want to put stuff in her coffin, the stuff that she loved. But there was something that I knew she would have wanted you to have. So I took it from her room first."

I blinked; this was the first time that I had been invited into Anne's room; the first time that I had been there, outside of pranks played by Emma and myself upon her. Bratty, indeed.

"What is it?" I asked, still a little muzzy from my crying.

"This." Opening her wardrobe, she reached up to the top shelf and took down something, and handed it to me. It was the Alexandria action figure, the one that I had assumed had been buried with Emma.

I stared at it. "I can't take this." I tried to hand it back.

She shook her head. "No. I know how much she loved it, and how much you wanted it. How over the moon you were when she let you borrow it for a week, and how you brought it back without a scratch. How you played tricks on her with everything else she owned, but never that. As her big sister, and yours by proxy, I'm making an executive decision. Take it. It's yours now. Take good care of it."

I stared at the plastic figurine nestling in my hands. "I will. I promise." Abruptly, I hugged her fiercely. "Thank you. Thanks for being here. Thanks for talking to me."

She held me close; despite the fact that I was a few years younger than her, I was almost her height. "That's okay, brat. Thanks for being Emma's best friend. Thanks for always being there for her."

We stood there, holding each other, for a long time. In my hand was clutched the Alexandria figure; it wasn't valuable, or even particularly rare, but between Emma and I, it had fought a hundred imaginary superhero battles. Even now I could see Emma, her face alight, swooping the plastic hero into battles she inevitably won, though they be hard-fought against nigh-impossible odds.

It was a part of everything that Emma had meant to me, the basis of a thousand happy memories. It was worth more than gold to me.

I even knew where I was going to put it when I got home.

Right next to Mom's flute.


End of Part Two

Part Three

 

[Ack]

Non-canon omake: "Futures"


Emma opens her eyes and looks around. "Where am I?" she asks dazedly.

Alexandria, seated in her father's favourite armchair, looks up from the book she is reading. "You're dreaming," she tells Emma concisely.

"Oh," she responds, belatedly noticing that 'Alexandria' actually has articulated joints. The fact that her prized action figure has entered her dreams and is now talking to her does not bother her as much as it might have. This is, after all, a dream. "Uh ... so, what's this dream about? Is Behemoth going to jump out of my closet?"

Alexandria shakes her head. "No. This dream's about you and Taylor."

Emma realises that Taylor is sleeping beside her, snoring softly. "What about her?" she asks quietly. "Please don't tell me that we're a lesbian couple, because that's just ew. Even with Taylor."

Alexandria chuckles. "No, but it is about your relationship with her. You need to make a decision."

"A decision about what?"

The far wall becomes a movie screen, split in two. Both begin playing a movie, but Emma finds that she can follow both.

"In a few days, Taylor's mom will be killed in a car accident," Alexandria's voice emerges from the darkness. "She will need you more than ever."

"That's terrible," Emma gasps. "Can't we warn her?"

There's a chuckle. "This is a dream. You won't remember this at all. Or believe it if you do."

"Oh."

"Now, this is a year from now."

The movies play on. Emma sees herself in a narrow street, surrounded by ABB gang members. In both, she fights back. In one, her throat is slashed and she dies in a pool of her own blood. In the other, she is saved by the cloaked vigilante.

"I think I like that one - " she begins, but is hushed by Alexandria. The movies roll on.

In one, she gets a beautiful funeral. She is remembered with loving affection. Taylor suffers from her loss, but bears up under it. Life goes on.

In the other, she joins forces with the vigilante to torment Taylor. For more than a year they do this, culminating in a locker full of -

"Oh god, stop it! I can't watch any more!"

Beside her, Taylor mumbles in her sleep and rolls over. Emma stares at the images frozen on the screen.

They vanish. Alexandria is still seated in the armchair.

"I can't - I can't change anything else?"

A shake of the head. "No. You may only choose between those two futures."

"And I won't remember."

"That's true."

"And in one I die, and in the other I'm an utter bitch who betrays her best friend."

"Something of that sort, yes."

Emma takes a deep breath, and makes her choice. It's surprisingly easy.

What the hell, she tells herself, it's only a dream.

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Three: All In the Name


The Daughter

Limbo.

More than just a mythical location, it is also a state of mind, a state of being. Or rather, a state of non-being. Not thinking, eyes closed, breathing shallowly, not moving. Not acknowledging even the possibility of the existence of an outside world.

There is nothing here. Nothing can hurt me, because I do not exist.

If there is no me, then there is no pain, no hurt, no loss.

I am not.

<><>​

She drifted in limbo, the warmth of the sheets covering her a barely acknowledged reality. The covers that she had pulled over her head gave the illusion of night-time, let her pretend that she was asleep, didn't have to get up, didn't have to do anything.

Didn't have to remember.

"Taylor."

The voice is an illusion. It doesn't exist. Ignore it for long enough and it will go away. It always has before.

"Taylor."

The voice does not exist. I do not exist. Nothing exists.

"Taylor!"

She clenched her eyes shut, but did not put her hands over her ears, because that would acknowledge the existence of the voice.

I am not.

"Taylor, you have to get up. You've been in bed for days."

The covers were pulled away from over her head; warm sunlight splashed over her face, her vision turning from black to red with the glare through her closed eyelids. She curled instinctively, arms covering her head, assuming a foetal position.

"Taylor, you have to get up. You have to eat. To drink. To bathe."

I have been getting up, she thought rebelliously. Midnight forays to sneak downstairs when the hunger pangs grew too strong to ignore. Furtive bites snatched in darkness because she didn't want to turn the lights on, to face her father. To face herself. To face reality.

"Taylor, get up." There was desperation in his voice now. Fear, for her. He doesn't want to lose me, like he lost Mom.

"D'n'w'n'a," she mumbled through a dry mouth, through vocal cords that hadn't uttered a sound that wasn't a sob for two weeks. The words, such as they were, came out despite herself, and in that moment she knew that she had lost.

Since the funeral, she had been striving to shut herself away from the world, shut the world away from herself. Her father would get up in the morning, shower and make breakfast. Then he would come and tap on her bedroom door before he went to work. She always heard him, never answered.

Awake, she would curl around the little tight ball of misery that was her entire world now, and pull the covers over her head. Sometimes she would sleep, sometimes she would cry, and sometimes she would just lie awake the entire day, the slow march of her thoughts matching the progression of the sun across the sky.

He would come home in the afternoon, to find her breakfast cold and congealed in the pan. She would hear him sigh as he scraped the pan out, and then he would come upstairs and tap on her door. Call out to her, ask her what she wanted for dinner. She never answered. Her door would creak open slightly; he would be checking that she was still there, still alive. She would roll over, turning her face from the door, and it would close again.

But now he wasn't taking that for an answer. He had forced her to respond to him, with almost insulting ease. Perhaps some part of her -

No!

- wanted to end this self-imposed exile -

I don't!

- and rejoin her family -

Don't make me!

- and the human race again.

Please. Don't make me.

Don't make me remember.

She felt hands on her, guiding her to sit up. Her legs unfolded against her will, slid over the side of the bed. "Christ," he muttered. "You're skin and bone."

Her eyes opened, but she kept them downcast. "Been eating," she muttered defiantly.

"Not much," he retorted. "And you smell. Have you showered at all?"

The answer to that was obvious. She didn't want to shower during the day, while he was out, because then she would have to look at herself, look at her face in the mirror. See the hurt in her own eyes. And she couldn't shower at night, because then he would hear her. Get up, perhaps. Turn on the lights. Talk to her. Make her talk to him. Make her think. Make her remember.

"Well, you're showering now," he decided. "You're getting up now, and you're marching into that bathroom, and you're going to stand under the shower for at least five minutes." As he spoke, he was delving into her drawers, retrieving a shirt, a pair of jeans. Underwear, even. "If you don't, then I'm going to fill the tub full of ice water and dunk you in it."

Her eyes opened wider at that. "You wouldn't."

"Try me," he retorted, with an uncharacteristic grimness. "It's been two weeks since Emma passed. To mourn is natural. This is more than mourning. It seems to me like you're trying to join her. Are you?"

The shock went through her system like an electric jolt. Is that what I've been doing?

Almost immediately, she denied it. No. No, I wouldn't do that. But the denial felt just a little hollow.

"Dad," she ventured, to try to turn her thoughts away from that topic, "is this what it was like for you when Mom passed?"

He took a long moment to answer, and his own face was carved in harsher lines when he did. "I … possibly. I don't remember much of that time. I know that Alan and Zoe and Emma took you in, helped you where I couldn't. But they can't help you now. They need all the help they can get, themselves. It's a terrible thing, to lose a child."

He fears losing me. He's worried for me. He loves me.

I've been so selfish. Emma's gone, but she wouldn't want me to do this. She'd want me to get out and make the best of life.

Guilt welled up inside her, and she pushed herself to her feet. It took her two tries, but she made it. Taking the clothes from his arms, she made her way across the room to the door. It felt strange, opening it in broad daylight. Turning, she looked across at the shelf above her bed, which held two of her most prized possessions. One was a flute, worn and well-used, while the other was an equally well-used Alexandria action figure. The flute reminded her of happier days with her mother; the plastic toy stood strong and brave and optimistic, as she remembered Emma to be. Mom, Emma, I'm sorry. I'll do better.

Her father followed her along the hallway to the bathroom. "I'll be making breakfast," he told her. "Bacon and eggs okay?"

Her stomach rumbled alarmingly, and she was suddenly very hungry. "Yes, please."

<><>​

After the shower, she realised just how bad she must have smelled; she could scarcely stand the reek of the pyjamas she had been wearing. Freshly soaped and scrubbed, hair shampooed, she felt a thousand percent better. And the odour of the cooking food, wafting up from the kitchen, made her stomach rumble all over again.

Her father looked up as she entered the kitchen; he was just putting bacon and egg on to a plate for her. "Hey now," he greeted her. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," she told him. It wasn't totally true; she was still avoiding her own gaze in the mirror, but she could handle being up and about. The impulse to dive back into bed and pull the covers over herself was still there, but it was being eroded more and more by the minute.

Taking her seat at the table, she picked up the glass of orange juice at her place, and sipped at it. It tasted heavenly; she could feel the chilled liquid trickling down her throat. A clank signalled the plate being placed before her; the delicious odour of freshly cooked bacon and eggs, seasoned just the way she liked them, hit her nostrils anew.

"Now, take it easy," he cautioned her. "You haven't been eating that much recently, so you want to ease into it."

He hadn't given her all that much, she realised. Compared to what he had on his plate, it wasn't much at all, but she still had trouble finishing it. It tasted so good; she felt as though she'd been fasting for weeks instead of days. "Wow," she told him after swallowing the last morsel. "That was great, Dad. Thanks."

Much of the worry was gone from his face and voice when he answered. "It's good just to see you up and around, kiddo. Now, let's go do one more thing."

"Go do what?" she asked. "I can't eat another bite, honestly."

"Not food." He held up the car keys. "We're going out."

"What?" She was puzzled. "Where? Why?"

"You'll see," he replied. "Now go visit the bathroom so we can go."

"What? I don't have to -" Her stomach took the opportunity to rumble in quite a different manner than before. "Whoops. Maybe I do."

<><>​

Once in the car, she watched him driving. "Sorry for frightening you like that, Dad," she ventured. "I … don't know -"

"I do," he stated. "You were right. When your mother passed, I went into a similar state. I could barely take care of myself; I certainly couldn't take care of you. I owe Alan and Zoe so much, just for being there when you asked them for help." Glancing across at her, he continued. "I don't know how you held up so well."

"I didn't," she confessed. "I fell apart totally too, remember? And even a month later, I was still crying myself to sleep." She had cried again, in the shower, but her father hadn't commented on her puffy eyes, for which she was grateful.

"Well, you've been coming back," he noted. "Even Alan was saying before you went on the camp that you were looking more cheerful, more like yourself. It's been good to see. Good to see you again."

"I don't know if I'll ever feel like me again," she replied in a choked voice. "Emma -"

<><>​

The Father

She began crying again; wordlessly, he handed her a box of tissues from the centre console. She used them profligately, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, but he didn't care. She was letting the emotions out, which was far better than locking them inside. Which was basically the point behind this trip.

They made one stop, at a florist. She stared out the window at the floral arrangements, then turned to him. "What are we doing here, Dad?"

"Why else?" he tried to make his tone light. "To buy flowers."

She didn't ask who the flowers were for; that was kind of a given. Together, they went into the shop. She got a little teary while picking out a bunch of summer-bright flowers, but he pretended not to see. He picked out a wreath; she was silent as they went back to the car.

They had driven a few more blocks before she started looking around, an expression of concern on her face. "Uh, you do know that you're going the wrong way for the cemetery, right, Dad?"

He nodded. "Yes. We're not going there."

"What?" She stared at him. "Where are we going then?"

He drew a deep breath. "I asked Alan. We're going to where it happened."

"What?" Her tone was utterly different, this time. "What, no. No. I don't want to go there, Dad."

"Taylor, listen to me." He put all the strength he could into his voice. "I'll be there with you, every step of the way. We need to see it. We need to see the place. It might help you come to terms with it. To face what's happened. Give you closure."

She clenched her hands around the bouquet that she was carrying so tightly that her knuckles whitened. "The only thing that would give me closure would be … " Her voice dropped too low for him to hear, but he could guess. If I could kill the bastard who did it.

He didn't know how to tell her that her wish had already been granted; at least the part involving the death of the culprit. The police had kept it quiet, but Alan Barnes had confided to him the scale of the bloodbath following the death of his daughter. Their best suspect for the murder, found wearing Emma's jacket, with the bloody blade still in hand, had been found dead on site, along with several of her comrades. Emma had been killed by a girl only a year or two older than herself.

"Well, let's just see how it goes, okay, Taylor?"

She brought her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. "I guess."

<><>​

The Vigilante

She picked up the signal from the radio beeper when it was still four blocks away. For the last two weeks she had been confining her attentions to this general area, two weeks during which she waited for Emma's friend to visit the spot. The device that Sophia had attached to the Heberts' car wasn't exactly Tinker tech, but it did the job; it had cost her a chunk of druggie money, but that was okay. There was always more where that came from. But now she was starting to get impatient; another week and she would have cut to the chase, gone to talk to the girl directly.

She pulled the receiver out of the belt pouch and tried to align the screen properly. The tiny dot indicating the car's location was moving toward the appropriate area, all right. Excellent. Show time.

She wasn't quite sure what she was expecting from the girl; after all, she hadn't been in the alleyway. All Sophia had seen of her was a tall, rail-thin girl, crying and being comforted by her father. Is she a wimp? Is that why it's taken her this long to come here?

Nah. The Barnes girl was a fighter. She wouldn't be friends with a wimp.

Stuffing the receiver back into the pouch, she ran to the edge of the roof and jumped; her cloak flared as she went to shadow form and coasted to the next building, where she reformed and ran forward once more. While she couldn't run as fast as a car, she didn't have to stop for traffic lights, or take a roundabout way to get where she wanted to go.

Puffing slightly from the exertion, she paused on the rooftop that she wanted. Are they going to drive up there, or park outside and walk? She didn't think they would drive into the alleyway; that, after all, was what had precipitated what had happened to the Barnes girl. But then, walking down the length of the narrow street held its own perils. Walking was the ballsier option. Let's see what this one does.

The car nosed up to the turnoff leading into the alleyway, and stopped. The air was so still that Sophia actually heard the parking brake come on as the engine stopped. Both doors opened, and they got out, bright flowers in hand.

Wait, what? They're bringing flowers? Did I just misjudge this whole thing?

As she watched, the father went to the back of the car and opened the trunk. From it, he took a large tyre iron. Gripping it tightly, he rejoined his daughter. Well, he's not stupid anyway. He's not prey.

<><>​

The Daughter

Taylor glanced around as they walked down the narrow street. It looked ordinary to her, strewn with random trash and refuse, but what had happened here made it ominous. Even though it was midmorning, the shadows cast by the buildings were just a little intimidating. She felt that she was on the set of a horror movie, that the monster was going to jump out at any minute now.

A flicker of movement, above, caught her eye, and she jumped, moving closer to her father. Turning her head, she stared at the edge of the roof. "Something's up there," she stated, not daring to raise her voice too much.

"What's that, Taylor?" Her father was looking all around, even glancing behind them, as they advanced down the alley. He put his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close. She didn't have any problem with that.

"I saw something move. Up there, on the roof."

"Probably a bird, or a stray cat looking for a bird," he suggested.

"I guess," she responded, but she was dubious. It hadn't looked like a bird, but then, she'd seen it only fleetingly, and not through her glasses. All she'd gotten an impression of was a dark object, moving. For all I know, it was a gorilla. Or a runaway weather balloon.

He kept moving, and she kept moving with him, but she was watching the edge of the rooftops now.

<><>​

The Father

"Taylor."

She looked around at him. "What?"

He pointed down at the ground before them. There was a vague misshapen stain on it; it could have been oil, paint or a dozen other substances. He knew what it was. "This is where it happened. This is where she died."

Dropping to his knees, he carefully laid the wreath on the spot. "Rest in peace, Emma. You will be remembered."

Beside him, Taylor was looking around at the alleyway, the surrounding buildings. "This is the place? This is where my best friend died?" Tears were running down her face. "Emma died here? In this stinking, shitty place?"

"Taylor -"

"No, Dad, don't you see how wrong this all is? Emma wasn't supposed to die. She was supposed to live! We were going to grow up as best friends, and critique each others' boyfriends – well, I'd critique her boyfriends – and she was going to be a supermodel, and I'd be a scientist and discover how super-powers really worked, or something like that! We were going to have lives! Adventure! Fun!" She kicked an empty tin can; it skittered across the cracked asphalt until it hit a wall. "And now all that's gone because of some fucking assholes in a dirty stinking fucking alley!"

As her voice rose, echoing between the buildings, she stormed back and forth across the road, kicking at scraps of newspaper and other trash. The can bounced away again, propelled by her foot; she ran after it and kicked it again, the bouquet forgotten in her hand.

Danny got to his feet and glanced around. He didn't like the idea of her yelling like this; the idea had been to visit, lay the flowers down, then walk away. But at least she was venting, letting her feelings out. But still …

"Taylor." She was standing still, head down, crying, as he came up to her. "Taylor, come on." As he put his arms around her, she leaned against his chest.

"It's just not fair, you know?" she sobbed. "It's not fair. This shouldn't have happened to her."

"I know, kiddo, I know," he sighed. "Life's not fair. We both know that." I've known it since Anne-Rose passed.

"I'm sorry for yelling like that," she ventured.

"It was only the truth," he pointed out. "Want to put your flowers down?"

"Okay." Pulling away from his hug, she went to where the wreath lay, and carefully placed the bouquet in the middle of it. "Emma, I'm really sorry this happened, okay? I'll try to have a great life for the both of us."

<><>​

The Vigilante

She couldn't hear the words as they spoke between themselves, but the girl – Taylor – had been clearly audible as she yelled. She had anger in her; Sophia could hear it. If she'd just started to cry, Sophia would have dismissed her as a wimp, but the violence in her actions told another story altogether.

She was sharp, too; Sophia wasn't sure that she hadn't been made, earlier, when they were walking up the alley. Taylor had been scanning the edges of the rooftop, and Sophia had had to keep her head down so as not to be seen. Most people didn't look up; it was a fact that made her life easier. But Taylor had looked up. What does that mean?

In any case, there was a new situation brewing. While they'd been in the alleyway, a couple of guys from the Merchants had wandered up and were now leaning on the car. These guys were out of their territory and they had to know it, but they were probably out tagging for the hell of it. The Archer's Bridge Merchants were not known for their common sense; they were in the process of being forced out of their original territory by the ABB, but they still went and tagged in ABB turf.

What the hell; Sophia didn't care about what happened to some Merchant mooks.

But what was going on down there at the moment was definitely of interest to her. Taylor and her father had just walked out of the entrance to the street, to see the gang punks. How are they going to handle this? Are they going to fold, or are they going to fight?

<><>​

The Daughter

She caught her breath when she saw the gang members. The anger had drained out of her, or at least mostly so, and she was more tired than anything; she still wasn't really recovered from her self-imposed starvation diet. There they were, leaning against the car, smoking something that she guessed wasn't tobacco, jeering to one another in highly obscene terms.

Her mind flashed back to what had happened to Emma, and she felt fear. It washed through her body, weakening her knees and loosening her bowels. Oh god, what's going to happen? "D-dad?"

"Taylor." His voice was firm and low. "Stay behind me." Gripping the tyre iron, which she had quite forgotten that he was carrying, he stepped forward.

The punks turned when he was still a few paces from the car. "Hey man, whassup?"

Her father stopped, and pointed the tyre iron like a gun. "Whassup, you little shits, is that you're gonna get off my goddamn car, and fuck off before I beat the ever-loving shit out of you."

Taylor's eyes opened wide. I've never heard Dad talk like that before.

It seemed that the gang punks were equally surprised. "Hey man, chill," one of them told him. "We're just hangin'. No big."

<><>​

The Father

Stepping forward again, he brought the iron down on the trunk of the car, leaving a dent. He hated doing it, but the anger roiling through him needed a target, and they needed to see that he meant business. The loud bang caused both the gang punks to jump up and away from the car. "Then go and hang some other place," he growled. "Fuck off before I fuck you up." Raising the tyre iron threateningly, he took another step forward.

"Shit, dude, all right, all right, we're going." They backed off; he wanted to follow, to threaten them some more, but they were going. The danger to Taylor was passing. He stood foursquare, tyre iron in sight, as they shambled off, looking back occasionally to make sure he wasn't following. When they felt that they were at a safe distance, they stopped and shouted obscenities, but he didn't care.

Getting his keys out, he unlocked the car and let Taylor in, then went around and got in himself. The tyre iron he tossed into the back seat.

His hands were shaking too much at first to put the key into the ignition; this was due to the after-effects of adrenaline in his system, he knew. But eventually he managed it, turned the key, and started the car.

"Dad … " Taylor began, as he turned the vehicle and began to head back toward home.

He didn't want to look at her, see the fear in her face. He knew he had a violent temper, inherited from his father, but he had sworn that he would never let it loose on Anne-Rose or Taylor. And he hadn't. But now she had seen and heard what he could be like, what his father had been like when he was a boy. "I'm sorry, Taylor."

"Sorry for what, Dad?" she asked, and now he turned to look at her. The look in her eyes wasn't fear, wasn't revulsion. It was hero-worship. "That was awesome. You scared the shit out of those assholes."

"Yeah, I know," he grunted. "I shouldn't have done that."

"What? No. Dad, seriously. That was awesome. Totally badass. You did what you had to do."

He shook his head. "Taylor, that's not me. Not really."

Reaching out, she put her hand on his forearm. "Well, I'm glad it was, just then. I'm glad you were there."

Taking his left hand off the wheel, he reached over to briefly cover her hand with his. "I'm just glad we got out of there in one piece. You all right?"

She leaned back in her seat and breathed deeply. "Yeah, Dad. I think I'm better than I was."

"Good. Let's go home; we've had enough adventure for one day."

She giggled, a little high-pitched, some of the adrenaline still working its way out of her system. "Yeah, I think so too."

<><>​

The Vigilante

Shadow Stalker watched the car drive away. She didn't bother to follow. Well, well, she mused. That family is definitely not made up of wimps. I'm going to have to keep a closer eye on them.

She still hadn't managed to talk to Taylor alone, but her chance would come.

Sooner or later, it would come.


End of Part Three

Part Four

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Four: Bad Decisions


Taylor

Two weeks.

She leaned on the railing, looking out at the bay. The Protectorate headquarters, within its pearlescent forcefield, was almost in her line of sight, but she refused to look at it. But she was aware of it, even as she refrained from acknowledging its existence. A rebellious thought flickered in the corner of her mind. With all their powers, they couldn't prevent one person from being murdered. What good are they, anyway?

Digging her nails into the wooden rail, she focused on the ocean once more. Brockton Bay was well-known for its climate, unusually warm for how far north it was, and today was proving to be no exception. She wore a sleeveless top and jeans; there was a fine sheen of sweat on her arms from the heat of the day. Before her, the sunlight glinted from wavelets travelling slowly in towards the shore.

Barely any of this registered on her, as she returned to her original train of thought.

Two weeks.

Two weeks since Emma died. Two weeks until I start high school.

Two weeks was not a long time, in the grand scheme of things. Taylor had had two-week vacations that went by in the flicker of an eyelid. And in fact, it seemed as though barely any time had elapsed since Emma's funeral; while she was no longer burying herself away from the world – not that she had any choice, following her father's intervention – the pain of her loss was still unexpectedly sharp.

At any time of day, she might see something and think, Oh, Emma would like that. Or worse, she might actually turn to address her best friend, forgetting that Emma would never again be at her elbow, never again roll her eyes at Taylor's jokes, even as she was laughing. Emma had a knack of telling her own jokes, the punchline carefully timed so that Taylor would snort her drink out of her nose. Taylor had thrown food at her more than once for doing this.

I'd let her pull that on me every day of my life if it meant I could have her back.

There were also just two weeks to go until school let in, and that was inflicting a whole new level of heartache upon her. She'd been looking forward to this, to a new school, new experiences. With Emma at her side, of course. Emma was the socially adept one, the pretty one. Taylor was happy to be the unnoticed friend of the popular girl, so long as this meant she didn't get picked on.

However, there was more to it than that. She had needed Emma for balance, for perspective. Before her mother's death, Taylor had been a motormouth, bubbly, full of life. Emma had provided brakes and just a little sanity. She had also, paradoxically, ensured that Taylor didn't just vanish from the world every time she got a new book that she liked.

Taylor, on the other hand, had done … what? Provided companionship? Injected a little levity and amusement into her best friend's life? Been the very best BFF she could possibly be?

She was left wondering if there hadn't been something more she could have done. If she couldn't have been a better friend. Made Emma laugh a bit more, made her life a bit happier. Appreciated her more while she was there to be appreciated.

And now I'll be going to high school and she won't be there to enjoy it with me. Though, to be honest, Emma had never quite enjoyed school as much as Taylor had. The joy of learning, of building on knowledge, was something she had understood, but had never been so deeply into as Taylor had. Nor had she been as much a cape geek as Taylor, although they had discussed the lives of various parahumans for hours at a time.

It was wrenching to think that she'd never have another who-would-win discussion, matching two heroes or two villains and citing previous battles and known powers, hashing out which of them would likely emerge victorious. Alexandria, of course, was the trump card in all of this; they had agreed early on that anyone taking Alexandria on deserved the beatdown they were inevitably going to suffer.

The tears that filled her eyes had little to do with the onshore breeze. I miss you, Emma.

"Hey."

<><>​

Startled from her thoughts, Taylor turned her head. There was someone standing there, but due to her tears, she had no clear view of them, although the voice had been female, probably of her own age. "What?"

"You okay?"

I'm about as far from okay as I can possibly get. But she didn't say so. Instead, she pulled a tissue from her pocket, wiped her eyes, then blew her nose. "I guess." She paused. "Uh … do I know you?"

Now that she could see clearly, she already knew the answer to that question. The girl standing before her was indeed a teenager, with long black hair and dark skin. Where Taylor was skinny and gawky, this girl was athletic and graceful. There was an air about her of watchful wariness, of being poised for action at any time. A little disconcertingly, she was almost as tall as Taylor, who was used to having significant height over any gathering of her peers.

"No," the girl confirmed, holding out her hand. "Sophia."

This was as blunt an introduction as Taylor had ever gotten from anyone. "Uh, Taylor," she replied, shaking Sophia's hand tentatively. The other girl's grip was firm, almost challenging; Taylor found herself having to apply a lot more pressure than she had first intended.

Sophia's gaze was very direct, her brown eyes fixed on Taylor's. "It's good to meet you," she said.

Taylor got the impression that there should have been a finally in there somewhere. She wasn't as people-savvy as Emma had been, but she was pretty sure that this was anything but a chance encounter. "Uh, right," she mumbled in reply. "Did you want something?"

Now, for the first time, Sophia seemed ill at ease. "You knew Emma Barnes, right?"

Taylor's eyes opened wide. "What? How did you know Emma? Who are you?"

"Uh … I met her briefly, the day she died," Sophia said awkwardly.

"Oh." Taylor blinked. "She didn't mention meeting any new friends to me."

Sophia's head came up at that. "How do you mean?"

"I mean," Taylor told her, her voice rising a little, "that I was talking on the phone to her about thirty seconds before she was killed. I mean that Emma and I were best friends from first grade and we used to share friends like nobody's business." She stepped forward, closing the distance, obscurely glad for the hot anger that was now replacing the hollowness in her chest. "So if she'd met somebody who she managed to impress to the point that you're seeking me out to ask about her, then you should've made an impression on her too. And she never said word one about meeting someone. So how about you tell me what the fuck you mean by 'met her briefly'. Or fuck off. I don't much care."

<><>​

Sophia

Shit. I didn't know that she'd been on the phone.

The conversation was not going at all like Sophia had imagined that it might. Taylor was quick, very quick. She had pounced on the discrepancy almost immediately; Sophia wasn't at all sure how to extricate herself from the problem.

On the other hand, the simmering anger radiating from the girl before her answered one particular question. Taylor Hebert is not a wimp. Which, ironically, made things a little harder for her. If the girl had been a pushover, Sophia could have just walked away, secure in the knowledge that if Taylor was a wimp, then Emma would probably have been one too.

But she's not. She's really not.

Taylor gave her a cold, dismissive stare. It stung; a moment ago Sophia had been in control of the situation but somehow the initiative had slipped from her grasp. "Emma was my best friend," the skinny girl said. "I don't believe that you knew her at all. You want something from me, and you're just using her name to get under my skin. Go away and leave me alone."

Sophia felt the first stirrings of her own anger. Here she was, honestly making overtures and all she was getting was rejection and abuse. "I'm not going away," she retorted stubbornly. "Not until you tell me what I want to know. About Emma."

Equally stubbornly, Taylor shook her head. "I'm not telling you anything about Emma until you tell me what this is all about."

"I can't tell you that," Sophia insisted. "But it's important to me. I need to know what sort of person she was."

"Well, if you can't tell me why, I'm not telling you shit." Turning, Taylor started moving off.

Incensed, Sophia grabbed her by the shoulder. "Don't you fucking walk away from me."

Even in the heat of her anger, she had not forgotten the assessment she had made of Taylor; specifically, that she was no wimp. Thus, it came as a surprise to her when Taylor turned with the pull instead of resisting it. It was even more of a surprise when Taylor's long arm came around at head height, her open palm cracking against Sophia's cheek.

In the normal course of events, she would have been ready and willing to return such a move with interest when in combat, but this hadn't been combat up until now. Momentarily stunned, she felt herself being pushed roughly back, to land ignominiously on her butt. "Now fuck off," Taylor advised her, "and leave me alone."

As Sophia pulled herself to her feet using the safety rail, her anger flared anew. Who the fuck does she think she is? Nobody does that to me and gets away with it.

Taylor had moved a few steps away in the interim; this merely served to let Sophia build up a little speed. Wimp Taylor might not be, but neither was she any kind of seasoned fighter; she turned far too late as Sophia bore down on her.

"Look, I told you -" she began, only to break off with an "Oof!" as Sophia's shoulder slammed into her midsection. They went down in a tangled pile on the Boardwalk. First they rolled one way then the other, each one struggling for dominance.

Taylor wasn't as strong as Sophia, or as fit. She certainly wasn't accustomed to fighting. But Sophia didn't want to hurt her and she didn't want to reveal her powers, which reduced the options open to her.

Still, it wasn't long before Sophia managed to push her on to her back and hold her down with a hand on each forearm. Taylor had lost her glasses in the struggle, but the glare she directed at Sophia was no less fierce for all of that.

"Stop fighting," panted Sophia. "We don't need to fight. I don't want to hurt you."

"Says the bitch who just tackled me," Taylor gasped. She tried to pull one arm free and failed. Undeterred, she tried with the other arm.

"I don't," insisted Sophia. "I just want to know about Emma."

"And until you tell me why, you can just fuck off in triplicate," Taylor managed. Heaving herself up a little, she pulled her arms together behind her head.

Sophia didn't realise what she was doing until Taylor's left hand grabbed Sophia's right wrist. Taylor didn't wear her nails long, but they were long enough; when she sank them into Sophia's wrist, Sophia yelped and let go of Taylor's arm.

The punch that Taylor then delivered into Sophia's ribs wasn't particularly expert, but it still hurt. She pulled her arm back and did it again, then a third time. Sophia tightened her grip on Taylor's left wrist and twisted her own left arm to break the grip. She succeeded but at that moment, Taylor heaved, throwing Sophia off of her altogether.

Sophia landed on her side; Taylor was rolling rapidly in the other direction in an attempt to widen the distance. But there was something the other girl wasn't seeing.

"Look out!" Sophia called, too late. Taylor came to the edge of the Boardwalk, rolling straight under the safety rail. At the last moment, realising the danger, she reached out and tried to grab the rail, but missed. The last that Sophia saw of her was the soles of her trainers, disappearing over the side. Sophia heard the sound of the impact.

Getting up, Sophia staggered to the rail, holding her ribs. Amateur she might be, but Taylor threw a mean punch. Looking over the rail, she saw Taylor, lying on the sand about ten feet below. She was on her side, face half-buried in the granular particles. One arm was twisted oddly. There was no sign of movement.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," muttered Sophia. Not again, not again. Looking left and right, she realised what should already have been obvious to her, that this part of the Boardwalk was currently deserted. Otherwise, the fight would have been broken up before it went too far. But this also meant that Sophia could cheat a little.

Vaulting over the rail, she went to shadow form before she hit the ground, then reformed beside Taylor. Grabbing Taylor's shoulder, she rolled her on to her back. "Are you all right -"

The handful of sand caught her square in the face. She coughed and choked and tried to blink her eyes clear, but she didn't get the chance. A punch to the face made her reel, then she was pushed on to her stomach and a heavy weight landed on her back; it felt like somebody's knee. Having her face ground into the sand didn't help her breathing problems; Taylor grabbed one arm and twisted it behind her back, but Sophia wouldn't let her get a grip on the other.

"What do you want with me?" demanded Taylor. "What do you want with Emma? Who are you? What the fuck is going on?" With each question, she pushed Sophia's face into the sand.

Sophia was struggling just to breathe. I could go shadow, but that would out me. Instead, she used her free arm to push herself up just a little, so that she wasn't inhaling sand.

"What do you want to know about Emma for?" Taylor's questions were relentless. "Where do you know her from?" She leaned even harder on Sophia's back; Sophia felt her vertebrae straining under the load. I've got to do something.

Turning her head, she blurted out the one thing she hadn't meant to say. "I was there when she died."

<><>​

Taylor

Taylor stopped pushing Sophia's face into the sand, stopped pushing her arm up behind her back. She just stared down at the dark-skinned girl, a whirl of thoughts displacing her anger, her hurt.

"What." She had wanted to ask a dozen questions, but the single word was all that came out.

Sophia turned her head farther, so that she could look up at Taylor with one eye. "I was there. When she died. I saw it happen."

"She was killed by gang members!" yelled Taylor. "They cut her throat! How could you have been there?"

Sophia's answer was as straightforward as it was shocking. "Because I'm the one who killed them."

Taylor's grip loosened all the way. She got off of Sophia and watched dumbly as the other girl sat up and scrubbed the sand from her eyes and nose, spitting out particles as she did so. By the time she looked up, Taylor was just staring at her.

"You killed them." Her tone was flat; she didn't know whether or not to believe Sophia.

"Yeah." Sophia's tone was equally flat. "I did. Each and every one of the bastards."

"The police said a vigilante did it. But they wouldn't say who." Taylor stared at Sophia. "You're good at fighting. But you're not that good. How could you kill them all?"

"The police aren't saying because it's not their jurisdiction." Sophia's lip twisted. "They'll have passed it on to the PRT."

Taylor blinked as she realised what Sophia was saying. "You're a cape?"

Sophia nodded once, curtly. "Shadow Stalker. That's me."

For a second, Taylor was puzzled, and then memory clicked in. "Oh, right. I've heard that name. That's you?"

As an answer, Sophia's body blurred into a mist-like form; when she reformed, she was standing upright. "That's me, yeah."

"Oh. Oh, wow." Taylor, still sitting on the sand, stared up at Sophia. Her eyesight was pretty bad without her glasses, but she'd still seen that. I'm talking to a cape? "So ..." She paused. "… why do you want to know about Emma?"

Sophia extended a hand to help Taylor up. "I don't know about you, but I've got sand down my neck and in my hair." Taylor noticed that she tacitly didn't mention the sand that had been thrown in her face, or the fact that her face had been rubbed in more sand. "Why don't we go get ourselves cleaned up, and then we can talk some more, if you want."

Taylor accepted the hand up; Sophia's grip, as she had previously noted, was quite strong. She came to her feet, then looked vaguely around. "My glasses. Can you see them anywhere?"

Sophia pointed at the Boardwalk above them. "I think they're up there."

"Of course they are." Taylor shook her head in resignation, causing a light shower of sand from her hair. "Which way are the steps?"

"Wow, you really can't see much without your glasses, can you?"

"Nope. Short-sighted as hell."

"That must suck." Sophia pointed. "Stairs are this way."

As they began to trudge in that direction, Taylor looked at Sophia. "You know something?"

Sophia rubbed at her cheekbone, where Taylor's punch had connected. "What's that?"

"If you'd led with the whole 'I was there when she died' thing, you would've had my complete and total attention, and I wouldn't have had to kick your ass."

"Oh, pul-leeeze. You weren't kicking my ass. I had you right where I wanted you."

"Really?" Taylor snorted. "You must love eating sand then."

Bickering amicably, the two headed for the steps.

<><>​

Sophia

"Okay, so give."

Taylor, once more bespectacled, had gotten rid of the sand from her clothing and hair. She sat opposite Sophia, also free of unwanted silicates, and sipped at her tea. There were fries in a basket between them; she nibbled at one while she awaited Sophia's answer.

Sophia, for her part, took her time. She glanced around at the other patrons of the cafe, noting that none were close enough to easily eavesdrop on the conversation. Nobody was even paying them much in the way of attention, which was exactly the way she liked it. She was also going through what she was going to tell Taylor very carefully; she had to tell it in such a way that she didn't vary too much from the truth, but also so that Taylor didn't learn certain aspects of her actions.

"The ABB had them trapped in the alley," she began. "Dumpster in front, van behind. They'd dragged her out of the car and had her on her knees. Not sure what was going on there. I think maybe they were making her choose which part of her face they were going to cut up."

Taylor put her cup down with a distinct clink and laced her fingers together. "But they didn't …" she began uncertainly.

"No, no, they didn't," Sophia hastened to assure her. "She fought them. Just as I got there, she elbowed one of the guys in the nuts. But when she went to pull free, the girl with the knife just … cut her throat."

Taylor shut her eyes hard, then opened them again. "Just like that?" Her voice was a little faint.

Sophia looked her straight in the eyes, pushing the lie as hard as she could. "Yeah. Just like that. She said something to Emma around about then, but I wasn't listening. I was aiming."

"Aiming?"

"Yeah." Sophia was back on familiar ground. "About three seconds after she did that, I shot her in the back of the neck with a razor-tipped crossbow arrow. Then I killed the rest of them."

Taylor breathed deeply, looking fixedly at the table. Her hands clenched on one another, the knuckles whitening almost alarmingly. "Good."

Sophia shrugged very slightly. "They killed her. Only made sense that they had to die, too."

There was a long silence, then Taylor looked up at her. "I have to know … did she … did Emma … was she …"

"She didn't suffer," Sophia assured her, then launched into her second lie. "She … well, when I got back to her, she was still alive. Still awake. Just barely hanging on. She looked me in the face and tried to say something. All I got was 'T …'. At the time, I thought she was trying to thank me for killing them. But now I think she was saying 'Taylor'."

"Oh god." Taylor's voice was low. "Oh god. Oh god. She died in that alley and I wasn't there for her."

"I wish I could have saved her." Sophia was entirely sincere now. "She came across as a fighter. Someone who didn't give up."

"Yeah, no, she was all of that." Taylor spoke hastily. "She never took shit from anyone. Never backed down. Always knew what she was doing and where she was going, and god help anyone who got in her way."

So she was a fighter after all. Sophia ignored the fact that she'd led Taylor into saying that. She wouldn't lie to me about her best friend.

A silence fell across the table; both of them ate fries, while Taylor drank tea and Sophia had some of her fruit concoction. Taylor didn't seem to want to break the silence, while Sophia wasn't sure how to lead the conversation where she wanted it to go. The last time I tried something like that, it didn't go so well.

"Well, I really appreciate you tracking me down and telling me what happened." Taylor had obviously decided that the silence was becoming awkward. "I'm just wondering. Where do we go from here?"

This was as good an opening as she was going to get. "How would you like to help me get revenge on those gangbanger sons of bitches?"

Taylor blinked. "I … didn't you say that you killed them all?"

Sophia's smile was grim. "There's more than them out there." She paused a moment. "And they'll be hurting and killing other innocents every night, out there. If someone doesn't stop them."

She ate a fry while awaiting Taylor's answer. It wasn't long in coming.

<><>​

Taylor

The alleyway was dark and smelled of rotting garbage. Some of it squished under Taylor's trainers as she waited. She blended into the shadows well, dressed from head to toe in the darkest clothing she owned. God, I hope Dad doesn't notice that I snuck out.

Sophia was late. The longer she waited, the more aware Taylor became of the stench of the alleyway, and the fact that she, a teenage girl with no particular training in crimefighting skills, was lurking in said alleyway, alone, with just a canister of pepper spray to protect herself.

What am I even doing? It was a variation on a question she had asked herself a dozen times over the last few days, as her preparations to go out on patrol with Sophia became closer to completion. There was a point to the question; she was no more prepared for violent encounters than Emma had been. What's to stop what happened to her, from happening to me?

As if in answer to the unspoken question, a shadow beside her solidified into Sophia, wearing the Shadow Stalker costume. "Hi." Her voice was barely a murmur.

For all that she had been expecting this, Taylor jumped. "Shit!" she hissed. "Don't do that!"

Sophia chuckled, the sound low and dark in the alleyway. "Sorry. Anyway, got you something."

"What?"

"Hold out your hand."

Obediently, Taylor did so; a moment later, her fingers wrapped around the handle of a baseball bat. It had been wrapped with electrical tape for better grip. "Wow," she murmured, hefting the weapon. "Oh, wow." Just swinging it back and forth gave her a feeling of power, of being in more control of her own destiny.

"I used it up until I got the crossbows," Sophia explained in an undertone. "Just remember; don't come in unless you think I need help. If you do have to come in, aim for the head or the joints and just keep swinging until you and me are the only ones standing."

"Right." Taylor realised that her voice sounded less than totally enthusiastic.

Sophia apparently picked up on the same vibe. "You okay with doing this? Want to back out?"

Maybe. She took a deep breath and stiffened her spine. "No. I'm doing this. For Emma." She'd do it for me.

"Good. Come on, then, if you're coming." Sophia turned and vanished into the darkness.

After a moment, Taylor followed.


End of Part Four

Part Five

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Five: It All Goes Wrong

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Taylor

I really need to get fit. She tried not to pant too obviously, jogging along between the ill-lit buildings. Ahead and above, a shadowy figure flitted from rooftop to rooftop. God, I hope she doesn't lose me. She could feel the nylon swimming wallet fastened around her right ankle; it contained money for cab fare, but she wasn't looking forward to trying to find a working pay phone in this neighbourhood. And I definitely don't want to try walking home alone.

But she couldn't keep her eyes on the rooftops all the time; there was litter on the sidewalk, and if she hadn't kept an eye on where she was going, she would have tripped over a dozen times by now. Looking upward again, she tried to spot Sophia. There was nobody that she could see. Crap. Well, she was moving in this direction …

Renewing her grip on the baseball bat, she moved forward again, trying to look in all directions at once. When the dark shape stepped out of a nearby alley, she let out a stifled gasp of relief. "Oh, there you are."

"Here I am," agreed the indistinct figure, in a voice that was deep and masculine, and not at all like Sophia's. "And there you are. What you doing walking down my street at night, girlie?"

Shit, shit, shit, shit. Gripping the bat in both hands, she backed away a few steps. What do I say? What do they say in those Westerns? "Just passing through. Don't want any trouble."

His chuckle was not at all reassuring. "I don't want trouble either. But I am gonna get me some sugar." He stepped forward, and she heard the snik of a blade opening. "So keep quiet and there won't be any trouble at all."

Oh, yeah. It doesn't work in those Westerns, either.

"Keep away from me!" She hated that her voice quavered on the last word. "I've got a friend -"

"Come here, bitch!" He lunged toward her; instinctively, she raised the bat and swung down as hard as she could. There was a solid thump and a muted crack, and he let out a strangled scream. "Fuckin' bitch! I'll fuckin' kill you for that!"

Remembering Sophia's brief tutorial on the subject, she stepped around to the right, hoping to avoid his knife hand, and swung the bat in a hard arc at knee level. Again, there was a solid thump that vibrated all the way up the bat into her hands. He let out another scream, a little more high-pitched this time, and she heard him fall to the ground.

"Maybe next time you'll -" she began, then yelped as she felt a hand close around her ankle. He jerked, trying to throw her off balance, but she brought the bat down hard, swinging blindly in the near-total darkness. On the third impact, his grip relaxed. By the sixth, he had let go. She hit him three more times, more out of reflex than of any desire to make sure. Panting, she stepped back carefully.

When the light cut out of the darkness to blind her, she threw up her arm to protect her eyes, and stepped back again. Oh, fuck, he had friends.

"Well fucking done." This time, it was Sophia's voice, sounding warm and amused. "You sure as shit put the beatdown on that bastard. I knew the Boardwalk wasn't a fluke."

Taylor felt her heart rate slowing down from 'ludicrous' to merely 'very fast'. "Are you nuts? The guy would've … fuck, he wanted to …" Even now, she couldn't actually say it. Saying it would make it real, and she didn't want it to be real.

"Yeah, and how many other girls has he done it to?" Sophia's voice was hard, now. She pointed the light at the man, sprawled on the ground in front of Taylor. "He asked for it. You know it."

"Is … is he alive?" The guy was lying really, really still. Taylor had a bad feeling about this. Blood and hair were smeared on the bat.

"Sure he is." Sophia came closer and knelt beside the body. With two fingers, looking very professional, she felt the side of his neck. "Yup, there's a pulse. He'll be fine. And maybe he won't try and grab girls in the dark any more."

"Oh, good." Taylor felt relief wash through her. I know what he tried to do, but I didn't want to kill him.

Coming to her feet in one lithe move, Sophia slapped Taylor on the shoulder. "Score one for the good guys. Come on, Night Girl. Let's go find some more assholes to show the error of their ways."

Taylor felt a warm flush of pleasure at Sophia's use of her temporary 'cape' name. It made her feel like a real hero. Like she was actually helping to make a difference.

<><>​

Sophia

"Yeah." Taylor gripped the bat a little more tightly, as if drawing strength from its presence. "Let's go do that." Then she pointed it at Sophia. "But don't fucking ditch me again. Got it?"

Behind her mask, Sophia smiled. Oh, yeah. She's a fighter. "Got it, parter. Ready to go do some righteous ass-kicking of evil?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"Great." Turning off the flashlight, Sophia tucked it into the pouch on her belt and waited till their eyes had adjusted before leading the way out of the narrow side-street. She didn't want Taylor looking too closely at the guy on the ground, because she hadn't actually been able to find a pulse.

If she realises that she's killed someone on her first go-around, she might panic. Give her time to get a little more used to the idea first. Of course, Sophia could've applied CPR, maybe even restarted his heart and gotten him breathing again. But why waste it on an oxygen thief like that? Some people are just plain better off dead.

Out on the main thoroughfare, the street-lights were actually working. Sophia strode along, cloak flaring, trying to project the impression that yes, she did actually own the whole damn street. Alongside her, Taylor pulled up the scarf to cover the lower part of her face and tried to copy her mannerisms. She wasn't entirely successful, but Sophia had to give her props for the effort.

After about a minute of this, Taylor turned to her. "So how do you do it?"

Sophia thought she knew where this was going, but the question was begging to be asked. "Do what?"

"Go out, night after night," Taylor said. "Knowing that they'll still be there after you go home. Knowing that no matter how hard you try, someone's likely to get knifed in an alley, but you didn't stop it because you were half a mile in the wrong direction." She waved her free hand, probably in an attempt to clarify her meaning. "How do you not lose faith in what you're doing?"

Fortunately, this was a question that Sophia had asked herself more than once. "I go out because someone needs to," she said bluntly. "The Protectorate does these cutesey little patrols, making enough noise that the bad guys duck into their holes until the heroes have gone past. They might stop a mugging a week, if the mugger's careless." She tapped herself on the chest. "What colour's my costume?"

"Uh, black." Taylor's eyes opened a little wider behind her glasses, as if she had just realised what Sophia was getting at.

"Exactly." Behind her mask, Sophia sneered, although it wasn't at Taylor. "The rest of them wear nice bright colours. Fucking Clockblocker wears white. He doesn't even have a ranged ability. So how the fuck he's going to sneak up on anyone is beyond me. They don't patrol, they display. They show off the fact that yes, wow, there are superheroes in town, and we'll protect you, we promise." By this time her hand was laid across her chest in a parody of someone swearing an oath, and her voice was as viciously sarcastic as she could make it. "Just so long as the bad guys commit the crimes right in front of us, on the schedule that we stick to on our patrols, and wait while we phone up Legend in New York so that he can personally give us permission to get off our fucking asses and do something."

" … wow." Taylor was staring at her. "It's not that bad, really. Is it?"

Sophia felt almost sorry for the taller girl's cluelessness. "I've watched them. They do the same damn patrols over the same areas, over and over, week after week. Crime goes down in those areas, because the criminals aren't idiots. They go elsewhere. Me, I vary my routine. One week one area, another week another area. And anything I stop, I stop hard. By the time I finish with those assholes, they know not to fuck with Shadow Stalker."

"Yeah." Taylor's voice was quiet. "You sure as hell stopped the ones that killed Emma."

"Damn right I did." Sophia felt quiet pride that Taylor was listening and understanding. "They aren't ever going to hurt anyone again."

"But there's more where they came from." The way Taylor voiced it, it wasn't a question.

"All the way up to Lung," confirmed Sophia. "And before you ask, no, I'm not fucking stupid enough to try to take him down. Kaiser, I could manage. But Purity would damn well turn me into a crater if I did."

"What about your shadow form?" asked Taylor.

Behind her mask, Sophia grimaced. "Would you want to be the one to find out that you're not immune to her blasts?"

Taylor looked enlightened. "Well, no, I guess not." She paused. "So … what you were saying about why you go out."

Sophia shrugged. "I do it because someone has to. I do it because people need to know that there's someone out here, watching out for them. But mostly, I do it because there are people in the world who desperately need to have their heads kicked in, and I'm just the one to do the kicking."

"Right." Taylor nodded. "I think I get it. I really do."

I knew she was smart. "Good, because -" Sophia broke off at the sound of a scream, up ahead. "Okay, talky time's over. Move it."

She accelerated into a sprint, feeling the cloak billow out behind her. It hampered her slightly, but not by a huge amount. Taylor's footsteps told her that the taller girl was trying gamely to keep up.

Another scream sounded from an alleyway, just up ahead. Sophia came to a halt, and looked around the corner.

There were five men, wearing Merchant colours, menacing two women and a man. The male victim was on his knees, cradling an arm which had red soaking through the sleeve. Both women seemed to be cowering back, not fighting at all. Sophia frowned at the sight of the blood. Did he try to fight back, or …?

Taylor skidded to a halt behind her, then leaned out to peer past her. "Holy shit!" she whispered. "What are we gonna do?"

"We're gonna kick the shit out of them," Sophia said automatically. "But -"

"Right!" Taylor darted past her. "Let's get them!"

Sophia's eyes widened as Taylor went straight for the men baseball bat raised. Shit – no -

Turning the corner herself, Sophia followed in Taylor's wake. When we're done here, I'm gonna have a talk with her about assessing the situation first.

The first guy had obviously not expected to see a teenage girl come running at him, screaming some incoherent war-cry, and brandishing a baseball bat over her head. He froze for that all-important half-second, which was all that Taylor needed. There was a solid clunk as bat met head, and he went down and out.

This left Taylor facing four armed and aware opponents. Even if they were Merchants, this still meant that there was a certain amount of danger involved. Not for Sophia, of course; given room to move, she could have taken them apart for light exercise. But Taylor had no training. All she had going for her was enthusiasm and a baseball bat.

"Night Girl! Down!" shouted Sophia. Taylor dropped to the ground. Sophia sighted on two of the Merchant assholes and triggered her crossbows. Razor-tipped arrows whipped across the gap; one impacted the target in the shoulder, while the other skimmed past the other guy and lodged into a wall.

"Fuuck!" screamed the guy she'd hit, stumbling to his knees. Pussy. The other one, wide-eyed, looked down at where the arrowhead had parted his jacket sleeve on the way past, and bolted. Bigger pussy. Sophia never paused, leaping past Taylor to slam her heel into the gut of one of the two still standing.

He folded, but she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, and went to shadow half a second before a heavy boot swept through her body. Rolling out of the way, she flickered into solidity and drove her elbow into the back of his neck. Where the fuck is Taylor? She's supposed to be backing me up, here.

She spent half a second too long looking around for the taller girl; all of a sudden, brawny arms wrapped around her from behind. The guy she'd elbowed, still shaky, brandished a knife at her face. "Gonna cut you, bitch," he slurred.

Letting the guy behind her support her, she kicked him solidly in the nuts, then went to shadow form once more. Reforming behind the guy who'd grabbed her, she locked her arm around his neck in a sleeper hold. He clawed at the tough cloth of her costume sleeve, but was unable to get a proper purchase.

Then the guy she'd nutsacked got up again. He was even more wobbly than before, but he was still up and fighting. He must get kicked there a lot. This was getting tedious; she'd tried to keep things less than lethal, but these guys were getting on her nerves, and she still didn't know where Taylor was.

Releasing the bigger guy, she rolled backward out of the way. With quick, practised movements, she reloaded her crossbows; as the guy with the knife came at her, she nailed him through the kneecap. That put him down, screaming like a little baby. His buddy, still groggy from the almost-choking, took one in each thigh before he went down too.

"Night Girl!" she called out, retrieving her arrows. The place online where she bought them supplied a discount for bulk orders, but even with druggie money, they still cost a bit. "Where are you?"

Straightening up, she looked around. No Taylor. Putting the arrows away, she strode over to where the mugging victims were just getting to their feet. "Hey, you."

The guy with the cut on his arm blinked. "M-me?"

"Yeah, you. You see where Night Girl went?" She waited a second for him to get the idea, then sighed in exasperation. "The other girl. The one with the baseball bat."

One of the women raised her hand slightly. "Uh, she chased the other guy, the one who ran away."

Oh, shit. "Which way did she go?"

The woman pointed. Sophia didn't hesitate; she took off running in that direction. Behind her, the man's voice dwindled away. "Aren't you going to wait for …"

The police? Hell, no. And stay out of dark alleys, you idiot.

Reaching the street, she skidded to a halt. There was no sign of Taylor or her quarry to the left or right. Oh, come on. I didn't take that long to kick their asses.

"Night Girl!" she called out, cupping her hands in front of her mask. "Where the fuck are you?"

There was still no answer, but she thought she heard a car trunk slam shut. Unfortunately, from the way the sound echoed, she wasn't sure where it came from. A few seconds later, she heard a car door closing. That sounded like it came from the right. Hoping she was correct, she turned right and started jogging down the street, looking around for any clue that Taylor might have come this way.

Shit, if she gets hurt because of me …

A car engine started, somewhere out of her line of sight. Fuck. Where's that coming from? It had been loud, so it was kind of close, but …

Just as she was crossing in front of yet another alleyway, headlights flared into high beam. Half-blinded, she flung her arm up in front of her eyes, trying to see what was going on. The car engine sounded again, roaring to a crescendo and rapidly getting closer. Instinctively, she went to shadow form and leaped straight up; the vehicle rocketed out of the alleyway below her. Dropping to the ground once more, she tried to get the number of the car, but it was swerving crazily from one side of the street to the other, having almost hit a parked vehicle.

Pulling her flashlight out, she scanned the alleyway. If Taylor cornered him in here, he might've just knocked her out before making his getaway. If she's hurt, I need to find her.

But there was no teenage girl to be seen. Just a familiar-looking baseball bat, and a black scarf that looked awfully like the one that Taylor had been using to conceal her identity. The horrifying reality burst in on her. Fuck. He took her with him. She's in the trunk.

Whirling, she sprinted from the alleyway, just in time to see the car's tail-lights take the corner at the end of the block. Fuck. I have to catch up with that thing.

Never in all her track and field experience had she run quite so fast. On the way, she unfastened the cloak and let it fall behind her. Pelting around the corner, she slowed down, heaving for breath.

The street was empty. As her breathing slowed, she could vaguely hear the engine of the car, but there was no way to pinpoint it.

Fuck. I lost them.

Slumping against the side of the building, she wrapped her arms around herself. I failed. Again. Taylor came out with me. She trusted me to back her up. And now the fucking Merchants have got her. Raising her face to the uncaring night sky, she arched her fingers into claws and screamed, "FUUUUUUCK!"

This time, there was no mistaking the red-hot ball of guilt that sat in her gut. I have fucked up so very, very badly. Taylor was a fighter, and I didn't teach her, I didn't train her. I just assumed she was ready. And now she's dead, or worse. Sophia had seen what the Merchants did in their spare time. She had no illusions about any kind of mercy that Taylor might face.

Gritting her teeth, she bumped the back of her head against the brickwork behind her. How the fuck do I make this right?

And then the answer came to her. Straightening up, she dashed back around the corner. On the way back across the street, she snagged her cloak and refastened it on the run. Retracing her steps, she retrieved the scarf and the baseball bat, tucking the former into her belt. And then she made her way to the alleyway where the mugging had taken place.

The three victims were gone, which was good. Taylor's first target still lay there, unconscious. The guy she'd gotten in the shoulder was lying there in a huge pool of blood, barely moving. Must've hit an artery. Oh, well.

The two she'd gotten with leg injuries were conscious, but in considerable pain. Kneecap guy was actually almost to his feet, or rather, foot. Leaning against the wall, he started in fear as Sophia re-entered the alleyway. "Stay away from me, you crazy bitch," he babbled. "You fucked my knee."

Sophia looked dispassionately at him, then at the one with a wound in each thigh; that one was sitting up, but hadn't managed to work out the concept of standing quite yet. She hefted the bat and moved toward the guy with the kneecap. "You're gonna tell me where you guys hang out," she said quietly. "And you're gonna tell me right the fuck now. You got me?"

"Fuck you, skank," he blustered. "I ain't gonna tell you fucking shit."

"Have it your way." She braced herself and swung the bat as hard as she could. It impacted with the side of his good knee with a sickening crack. Screaming shrilly, he crumpled to the trash-strewn ground.

"Fuuuuuck!" he screamed, writhing in agony. "My fucking knee! You fucking bitch!"

She put one foot on his leg and took aim at the knee she'd shot out. "Tell me where. Right the fuck now."

"Shit, no, no, no," he blurted. "I'll tell you, I'll tell you." Hastily, he rattled off an address. Sophia knew the street, but hadn't thought there was a Merchant hangout there.

She frowned at him. "I think you're fucking with me." Raising the bat, she smashed it into his knee anyway. He convulsed, shrieking so loudly she thought he might pop a blood vessel, and then passed out.

Sophia turned to the other guy, who had been watching with horror. "One down," she said as menacingly as she could. "So, you want to tell me where you really hang out, or you want me to see how many ways I can fuck up your legs too?" She slapped the bat into her palm. Already pale, he went sheet-white.

<><>​

Merchant Hangout, at the same time

Joe looked over his cards at the other guys in the game. Mitch looked like he might be out of it, though Roach was still in the game despite the huge joint he kept toking on. Ziggy, on the other hand, was tripping hard on something, which puzzled Joe. He hadn't known Ziggy had anything worth tripping with.

He rearranged his cards and peered at them. The smoke from Roach's joint drifted across the table, making it hard to concentrate. Finally, he pushed a couple of tiny pills into the stash in the middle of the table. "I bet two E."

Mitch blinked awake and licked dry lips, reaching for one of the E's. Joe slapped his hand. "You need to win the pot first."

"Oh. Yeah." Mitch put down his cards. "I win."

Just as Joe was peering at the cards, the door to the hangout opened. Roach took a hit on his joint, then gusted the smoke across the table as he spoke. "Dude. We didn't ask for any party favours."

Joe looked around. Ray stepped into the hangout and shut the door behind him. He had someone over his shoulder, dressed in black from the waist down. Joe couldn't see if it was a guy or a girl, and what they were wearing from the waist up, but he assumed it was much the same.

"Not a party favour," Ray said, dropping his burden on to one of the ratty armchairs. Joe had been right. Black clothing from top to toe. Plus, long hair, which probably made it a girl.

"Shit, it's a kid," Joe said. "What the fuck, Ray? If you're gonna get someone high and bring them back, at least make sure they've got tits."

"I can't tell," mumbled Roach. "Is it a boy or a girl? If it's a boy, I'm out." Joe sniggered; the 'boy in a dress' prank they'd played on him that one time had been fucking hilarious. Some of the photos were still floating around somewhere, too.

"It's a girl," Ray said. "And she's Shadow Stalker's fucking partner."

That name got Joe's attention. He looked more closely at the girl's face. It was pretty badly bruised, with split lips and a broken nose; one eye was badly swollen. "You sure?" All of them there had a major hate-on for that shadow bitch. She stole their money, torched their drugs and shot arrows into them at every opportunity. Joe was pretty sure that she had even offed a couple of guys he'd known.

"Dead fucking sure," Ray stated flatly. "Me and the others ran into them in an alley off Dwight. Remember that one that people cut through all the time?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, that one," Ray said. "Two of them, five of us, this one had a baseball bat. Hit Donny right over the head. Then Shadow Stalker started shooting, so I legged it. I'm the only one who got away. This bitch chased me, but it turns out she's got no idea how to fight. I got the bat off her, so she tried to pepper-spray me, but I saw it coming. Knocked it out of her hand and kinda tuned her up a bit. Dropped her in the trunk and came here."

"Duuuude," breathed Roach. "My fuckin' hero."

Joe frowned. "Why bring her back here? Why not just fuckin' shank her and leave her?"

"Because she's Shadow Stalker's fuckin' partner, you dick," Ray said. "We can finally find out where that bitch lives, and put a fuckin' end to her."

Joe looked at the girl apprehensively. "What about her powers?"

Ray shrugged. "Didn't use any. Unless 'sucky at fighting' is a cape power these days."

"All-righty, then." Joe got up, ignoring Mitch grabbing at the stash of pills in the middle of the table. He pushed his chair into the middle of the floor. "Tie her to this and wake her up. We got some questions to ask this little bitch."

It didn't take long to wrestle her limp form on to the chair. They had no rope, but an extension cord did the job just as easily. It was Roach, as he tied her ankles to the chair legs, who found something interesting. "Hey, what's this?" he asked, pushing up her pants leg.

"What?" asked Joe.

"This." Roach pointed at a flat wallet of some sort, strapped to her ankle. "Think it's important?"

Joe laughed out loud. "Important? That's fuckin' golden." Pulling his switchblade and popping it open, he leaned down to slice the straps holding it to the girl's leg. "Okay, let's see." There was a zipper on one side; opening the wallet, he went through it, pocket by pocket.

"Well, well," he chuckled. "Well, well, fucking well. Thirty dollars. Must be cab fare. Well, it's mine now."

"Hey," slurred Roach. "I found that. That money's mine."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Next time, you check the fuckin' thing out then, loser." Tucking the money into his pocket, he kept searching. It didn't feel as though there was anything else in there, but he kept looking on general principles. He was just about to give up when he found something else. "What's this?"

"What's what?" asked Ray.

"A name. This wallet belongs to T. Herbert," he said, squinting to decipher the faded, fraying label, stitched into the very last pocket. "No, wait. Hebert."

"Weird fucking name," Ray said. "You sure that's what it says?"

"Sure as shit," Joe assured him. "Like 'Herbert', but without the first 'R'."

Ray grinned. "Good. Let's see if they're in the phone book." He rummaged through a cupboard until he found a White Pages, then started riffling through it. "Let's see … Hays … Head … Heath … Hebert … well, fuck me. It's a real name after all." His grimy fingernail came to a halt on the sole listing for Hebert. "Okay, I've got an address for D and A Hebert."

"Well, it's a good bet that that's where this bitch lives." Joe shrugged. "Dunno what Shadow Bitch's name is, though. Or even if she lives there."

"One way to find out." That was Ray. "I'll get some of the guys together and go over there. Find out what the fuck's going on, and put a fucking end to it."

"And I'll stay here." Joe looked down at the unconscious girl. "See what she can tell us about Shadow Stalker. And then we'll teach her not to mess in Merchant business. Ever fucking again."

"Wait." It was Roach. He blinked as Joe and Ray both turned to look at him. "Uh … aren't there rules for this sort of thing? Unmasking capes and shit like that?"

Ray grinned unpleasantly. He was really good at it. "We're not capes. They don't apply to us."

Joe nodded. "Damn straight."



End of Part Five

Part Six

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Six: The Consequences of Failure



[A/N 1: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: This fic is being pulled from the voting round by request, so that it can be commissioned for later chapters.]



Even before she opened her eyes, Taylor knew that something was badly wrong. Her nose was one huge throbbing balloon of agony and she couldn't breathe through it. In addition, she had a splitting headache, and both her left eye and her mouth throbbed with ongoing pain. The ribs on the left side of her body ached abominably, merging with her stomach and chest. Memory came and went: a shadowy figure, shouting curses, looming over her, kicking at her. Repeated blows, each one driving her closer to the brink of darkness.

She was sitting upright, she realised, head hanging forward. Her arms were fastened behind her, at an angle which threatened to pull her shoulders from their sockets, while her legs refused to move at all. Her tongue explored cuts on the inside of her mouth then discovered the gaps of two missing teeth. Several more were loose, as she discovered when her tongue moved one and it pressed on a nerve. Involuntarily, she winced.

"I think she's waking up." It was a man's voice, unknown to her. It was dull and rough, overlaid by the rasp of way too many cigarettes.

"Still think we shoulda got some while she was out." The other speaker was also a man, but his voice was wheedling and unpleasant. It had a breathiness about it, as if he was gloating over a secret that only he knew. "Best way to wake a bitch up."

"You'll get your chance. Hey, girly, open your fuckin' stupid eyes." Suddenly, Taylor's hair was grasped and pulled backward sharply, bringing her head up. She fought to keep her eyes shut—eye, really, as her left eye didn't want to open anyway—but a rough double slap across the face made her head recoil to one side, then the other. Gasping in pain, she opened her right eye; her left was closed to a slit by the swelling, so she gave that up as a bad job.

"Hey!" shouted the ten-packs-a-day voice. Even if Taylor's head hadn't been ringing too hard for her to focus on them, her glasses had disappeared somewhere and she couldn't see anything clearly. "Where's fucking Shadow Stalker, you little bitch?"

"Wha …?" she mumbled. She didn't know whether to be happy that they hadn't gotten Sophia or worried that the other girl might not be able to save her. Muzzily, the thought of Sophia abandoning her crossed her mind, then vanished just as quickly. She's not like that.

"Where's fucking Shadow Stalker, I said!" he screamed into her face. She tried to wince away from the acrid gust of drug-stinking breath and the spray of spittle that came with it, but his grip on her hair prevented her from going anywhere.

"Right … behind … you," she mumbled. It was the most defiant thing she could come up with, and she was rewarded with an involuntary curse from the other guy. The one who was holding her hair jerked his head around, making her wish that Sophia had actually been there.

"Fuckin' clever bitch." The guy drove his fist into her gut, driving every scrap of air from her lungs and reigniting the pain in her ribs. Agony bloomed out in all directions and she tried to double over, but the bonds held her in position. Coughing, she sprayed what tasted like blood from her mouth. Each spasm jolted her already-damaged ribs, sending iron spikes through her chest. She felt her head grow light from the effort of dragging air into her lungs, only to cough it out again.

The other guy dragged deeply on a cigarette, then took it out of his mouth and touched the glowing ember to the corner of her swollen left eyelid. He did it so simply and quickly that she had no time to brace for the pain, if she'd even been able to do so. She tried to scream, which was harsher on her throat than the coughing had been, but there was just no air. Choking, she desperately swallowed blood so she wouldn't drown on it.

Darkness wavered behind her eyes as she fought to draw oxygen into her lungs. The burn on her eyelid shouldn't have mattered so much compared to the rest of her injuries, but somehow it stood out in sharp relief to what had already happened to her.

"I said, where's fuckin' Shadow Stalker?" screamed the guy into her face. At least he wasn't hitting her, so she was gradually able to get her breathing under control. Talking was still basically impossible, but he must've mistaken her silence for defiance. She whimpered and cringed as he drew his fist back again. Wherever he hit her, he was going to do damage. She wasn't going to survive this, she began to realise. He was going to beat her to death, asking her questions she had no way of answering.

Before he could land the blow, the other guy grabbed his arm. Through the thundering of blood in her ears, she heard a vague mumbling. She concentrated on breathing, trying not to push herself into another fit of coughing. Gradually, her head began to clear. She refused to be thankful for the respite, seeing how the asshole had burned her eyelid with his cigarette. It stung like a motherfucker.

The guy holding her hair turned back to her. "Okay, smart bitch," he said. "Who the fuck is Shadow Stalker? What's her real name?"

Sophia. "S—" she began, then cut herself off. "Shadow Stalker?" she mumbled. "Dunno."

"She's lying," said the other guy, in his wheedling, breathy tone. "Can we get some now?" Taylor heard the sound of a zipper being pulled down. "Hold her still an' make her open her mouth."

With a growing sense of dull horror, Taylor connected the dots and realised that things could indeed become worse than they already were. "I'll bite," she mumbled.

The other guy's hand moved, and she heard a sharp mechanical click. Something glinted in his hand. Due to the grip on her hair, she couldn't turn her head to look directly at it, even if her one good eye had been able to focus on it, but she already knew what it was. "If you fuckin' bite, girly," promised the breathy voice, "I'll carve out your fuckin' eyes. Now hold still an' suck what I tell you to suck." His giggle sent shivers down her spine. "Then I'll get you loose from that chair, an' we'll really have some fun." His free hand made a cupping motion around his crotch, and for once she blessed the fact that she couldn't see any details at that distance.

"You and your fuckin' E," sighed the first guy. "Fine, be my guest. Don't use her all the way up, though. I wanna see the look on her face when—"

<><>​

Sophia came in through the window. Some small part of Taylor thought that the entry should've been a lot more dramatic, with splintering boards and shattering glass, but of course Shadow Stalker didn't play that way. Shifting from her shadow form to normal, she straight-armed her crossbow at the guy holding the switchblade. There was a sharp twang and the guy shrieked in pain; a tight, ugly sound. "Get away from her!" she screamed, her voice savage and feral.

"Keep away!" The guy holding Taylor's hair hauled her head back. "I'll fuckin' kill her!" He fumbled behind him, and suddenly there was something metallic pressing up under her jaw. Not sharp; it wasn't a switchblade. Oddly enough, even in the crime-ridden city of Brockton Bay, she'd never actually seen a gun up close before. But she'd seen enough TV that the metallic click-click clued her in.

"Point that thing at me, you fucking coward." Sophia's voice had become low and deadly. She crouched, her cloak hiding what her hands were doing. Taylor knew anyway; she was reloading her crossbow.

"I'm not fuckin' stupid," he gritted out. "I point this thing away from her, an' you'll do that mist thing, an' I'm fuckin' dead. Not this fuckin' time, you little cu—"

On the floor, the other guy stirred, groaning. Sophia's shot had put him down but not out. During their talks, Sophia had complained about how some druggies had a ridiculous capacity for pain. Something to do with the way their habits fucked with their nervous systems. And now this one was getting up again, which would divide Sophia's attention. And it's all my fault.

Taylor jerked spasmodically. She couldn't move her arms or legs, but her head was only restrained by the guy's hand tangled in her hair. As she wrenched her head around, she felt hairs tearing from her scalp, but Sophia had distracted him just enough that he didn't pull her away in time. The wrist of the hand holding the gun was right in front of her, and she sank her teeth into it.

"Ahhh!" he screamed. "You fuckin'—"

As he ripped his wrist free of her mouth—fresh blood filled her mouth as his flesh tore, and a stab of pain in her gum heralded a loose tooth becoming a lost tooth—Sophia came across the room like an avenging angel. Her chair lurched then fell over sideways, tearing more hair from her scalp as the guy lost his grip on her. There was a metallic clatter somewhere out of Taylor's sight, which she hoped was the gun hitting the floor. She struggled to get free of the ropes, but her entire weight was resting on her right arm and there was something wrong with the shoulder. In addition, the impact had made her ribs flare up as well as knocking the breath out of her, yet again. Half-blind, with ringing ears, unable to move, barely able to draw breath, she'd never felt so helpless in her life. Is this what it was like for Emma?

Behind her, Sophia took on the guy who'd been holding her. Taylor had no way of analysing the sounds of the fight. All she could do was hope that Sophia took the guy down fast. From what she'd seen of the room, Sophia didn't have a lot of room to manoeuvre, and the one opponent was going to shortly become two again. Normally, Sophia would simply have retreated, hoping to draw her opponents into a more favourable battleground. But with Taylor a static hostage, she was being forced to stay and fight where she was. This is my fault.

She heard several heavy thumps, then a thud shook the floor. "Right," panted Sophia. "Now, let's—"

BANG

Taylor jerked as the shot echoed through the room, almost as if the bullet had torn into her. But while pain still wracked her body, no new indignities had been inflicted on her. She got the vague impression of fast movement behind her, then two more shots were fired. The ringing in her ears faded, leaving behind the sound of Sophia's swearing.

" … motherfucking kidnapping sonovabitches …" Sophia knelt down behind Taylor, and she felt fingers fumbling at the ropes holding her. "I should kill all those sick fucks. You okay, Night Girl?"

It took a second for Taylor to register that Sophia was addressing her. The ropes holding her wrists parted, reducing the strain on her left shoulder and providing a welcome relief from a little bit of the pain. "Been better," she mumbled. "So glad you're here." Tears spilled out of her eyes and she wanted to cry. Sophia was here. Everything was going to be okay.

"I wasn't going to leave you hanging," Sophia said firmly. "Did they … are you …"

Taylor hissed with the sensation of returning circulation as she brought her left arm around to try to support some of the weight that was pressing on her right. More rope parted, and she rolled away from the chair to lie face-down on the floor. "Hit me a few times," she slurred, working to get her hands under herself. As much as she wanted to just lie there, she knew she had to get up and move herself. Pins and needles were still sparking along both arms, but only the left one wanted to respond. Any time she tried to move the right, it just resulted in lots of pain. Vaguely, she guessed that it might be broken. Dad is gonna be so upset.

A strong hand hooked under her left shoulder and gave her a boost upward. With that assistance, she was able to stumble to her feet. "Come on," Sophia urged her. "If there's anyone else around, they'll have heard the gunshots. We need to be gone now."

"My glasses," Taylor mumbled. "Can you see my glasses?" She knew it was a stupid, inane request, but those glasses meant the difference between being sighted and near-blind to her. Between being helpless and able to run away.

"Nope. Sorry, but you're just going to have to get a new pair." Sophia sounded short of breath. "We're going. Now."

"Okay. Sorry." Taylor pushed herself as hard as she could, stumbling along with Sophia to the main door of the hangout. This yielded after a shove and a grunt from Sophia, and they were out in the cool night air.

Taylor was getting back the feeling in her legs by now. Holding her right arm close to her body with her left, she followed Sophia down a short alley and out on to the street. "Where are we?" she asked, looking around and squinting with her good eye at the patchy street-lighting.

"Docks," Sophia said shortly. "Come on." She picked a direction and led the way down the street, with Taylor following behind. They'd gone about a block before the dark-clad vigilante stumbled and went to one knee before climbing to her feet again. Just for a moment, she stood there, one hand against the wall and the other pressed against her side, swaying slightly.

"Shit, are you okay?" asked Taylor, coming up alongside her. This close, she realised that Sophia's costume, already dark, was oddly shiny around her lower left side. "Did he hit you?"

"I'm fine," Sophia grunted. "I'll be fine." Then Taylor caught sight of the hand she had pressed to her side. There was a red sheen over the fingers.

"Sophia, you're bleeding! Did that guy shoot you?" Taylor's right arm was still too painful to use, so she reached out with her left hand. "Let me see."

Reluctantly, Sophia pulled up the padded shirt she wore on that side, and Taylor leaned in close. She gasped with horror as she saw the tiny hole, so small she could've plugged it with her finger. Blood trickled from it in an unending stream. "Shit, we need to get you to a hospital!"

"I'll be fine," Sophia said. "I'll put pressure on it. I've had worse." Working one-handed, she pulled a pad and a bandage from a pouch on her belt. With Taylor's help, she put the pad over the hole, then fixed it in place with the bandage, winding it around and around her torso.

Taylor eyed the way the pad had instantly turned red, and how it was already soaking through the bandage. She didn't like that at all. "We need to get you to the hospital," she reiterated.

"Maybe," conceded Sophia. "But we can't do it as Shadow Stalker and Night Girl. We'll say we were kidnapped by the Merchants and we got away, and I got shot doing it." She swayed, and Taylor automatically steadied her.

"Okay, that'll work," Taylor agreed. She would've agreed to just about anything by now. Sophia had been hurt because of her stupidity, and she was willing to do anything to put it right. She was already feeling bad about losing the baseball bat. "We've got to get rid of the costume stuff, though. So they don't realise you're Shadow Stalker." She herself was just wearing dark clothing, and the scarf she'd put around her face to hide her identity was looped loosely around her neck.

"Shit, you're right." Sophia shook her head and swayed again. "Not thinking straight." She pulled off the hockey mask and cloak, and Taylor helped her wrap it around her crossbow, the remaining arrows and the utility belt. "Stick it behind there. We'll pick it up in a couple of days." She indicated an overflowing dumpster which obviously hadn't been emptied in weeks.

Taylor did as she was told, then turned around to see that Sophia had slumped against the wall again and was beginning to slide to the ground. "Hey," she said urgently. "You can't pass out here. I've got to get you to the hospital." She hurried back to Sophia's side and helped her stand up straight again. Ducking under Sophia's right shoulder, she wrapped her arm around the other girl's torso, just above the bandage. "Come on, let's do this. Where's your phone? We'll call for an ambulance."

"Not … yet," Sophia mumbled. "Too … close. Those Merchant assholes … come back, we're dead." Leaning on Taylor, she staggered forward one step, then another.

The teenage vigilante had been right so far, so Taylor re-settled her shoulder under Sophia's and helped her along. Her left arm and her legs were about the only things that didn't throb with pain in tune with her steps, but she couldn't give up. She couldn't give up on herself, or on her best friend. Down one deserted street after another they stumbled, until her friend's legs gave out and she slumped to the ground.

"Hey!" Taylor said urgently. "Hey! Sophia!" But the dark-skinned girl didn't respond. Taylor was pretty sure she was still breathing, so she checked the bandage. It was sodden through with blood, and Taylor had the horrible feeling that a lot of it was fresh. "Fuck," she muttered. "I've got to call that ambulance." Sprawled on the ground, Taylor realised for the first time that Sophia looked small and fragile.

It felt weird to be digging into Sophia's pocket to retrieve her phone. Taylor had never used one of the new smartphones, and it took a little bit of fiddling and pressing buttons to make it wake up. Crouching protectively over Sophia's supine body, she awkwardly keyed in 9-1-1 with bloodstained fingers.

"You have reached nine-one-one emergency. Do you require police, fire, ambulance or PRT?" The operator was a woman, and she sounded bored.

"Ambulance … ambulance, please. My friend's really badly hurt and I think she's dying. The Merchants kidnapped me and she came and rescued me but they shot her and she's bleeding really badly and comehelpuspleasepleaseplease!" Taylor babbled the words out, feeling herself slipping closer to hysteria with each word. Her right arm was still too painful to move, so she pressed hard on the bandage with her knee.

"Honey, I'm going to need you to take a breath. Can you do that for me?" The woman was no longer bored. Her voice was professionally calm. "The best way you can help your friend is to tell me exactly what's going on. Can you do that for me?"

Taylor dragged a breath into her lungs, ignoring the ache in her ribs. "Y-yes. Just hurry, please."

"We're doing the best we can. Now, are you injured, and are you in immediate danger?"

She took stock of herself, then looked up and down the street. "I'm, uh, pretty beat up, but I'm okay really. It's Sophia who's hurt. Um, we're in the Docks. I can't see anyone around."

" Good. That's good. Can you tell me where you are?"

"Oh, uh …" Taylor looked wildly around. There was a street sign nearby. Not wanting to be parted from Sophia for even a moment, she nonetheless climbed painfully to her feet and staggered toward it. "There's a sign here. It's been pretty badly vandalised, but …" She squinted with her one good eye. "I think it's Thompson Street and … Davidson? Davison? I can't tell. We're in the Docks. There's nobody around. Does that help?"

"That helps a lot. You're doing well here. Now, I need you to check her pulse and her breathing. Do you know how to do that?"

"No," confessed Taylor. "I don't know how to do any of that." She began to feel more and more inadequate. I don't know how to fight, I don't know how to do first aid. I shouldn't have told Sophia I was ready to do this.

The lady at the other end of the line never faltered, however. Step by step, she explained how to find Sophia's pulse and to make sure she was breathing. Then she asked Taylor to detail Sophia's injuries. Finally, she explained how to put Sophia into the recovery position. This wasn't easy with one hand, but once she put the phone on speaker she was able to do it.

"Okay," she said breathlessly. "What do I do now?"

"Now, I need all the details that you can give me about you and your friend. Names, medical history, anything like that …"

<><>​

The police car arrived first. Taylor had expected lights and sirens, but neither eventuated as it nosed around the corner then accelerated down the street toward her. It slowed dramatically and came to a halt a good ten yards away. Two officers jumped out as the ambulance turned the corner. One of them pulled his gun immediately and began to scan the surroundings while the other crossed the distance to Taylor.

"I'm told police and ambulance are on site now," the lady on the phone said in her ear. "Is that correct?"

"Yes," Taylor said in breathless relief. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." Sophia would be all right now. It was still all her fault, but Sophia would be all right.

"Miss Hebert, is it?" It was the officer. "How badly are you …" He trailed off and looked sick as she raised her face toward him. "Oh, shit."

"It's not me you need to be worried about," Taylor said hastily. "Sophia's really badly hurt. She passed out awhile ago, and she's been bleeding badly. I've tried to keep pressure on it, but her pulse is getting really bad."

There was a clatter of something metallic, and then two EMTs, or paramedics, or whatever they were called, ran toward them with one of those rolling stretchers between them. "GSW," the cop said to them as they arrived. "Non-responsive, heavy bleeding."

"Yeah, we got that," said one of the EMTs. He looked at Taylor, then turned to his partner. "Tell Joe to get the other gurney out. We got two passengers tonight."

"What? No!" Taylor winced as the intensity of her protest sent a wave of pain through her body. "Sophia's the one that needs help, not me!"

"We're going to be helping her," the EMT said patiently. "But you need help, too." There was a clatter from the direction of the ambulance. "Has your friend suffered any spinal injuries?"

"Uh, no, she was walking before she passed out," Taylor said.

"Good," said the EMT. "Excellent. Let's get her on to the gurney." The two paramedics did something to the stretcher, and it collapsed down to almost ground level. Taylor went to get up out of the way, but he gestured for her to stay where she was. "Miss, don't move. We need to put you on a stretcher and get you checked over."

"I don't really need it," Taylor said. "I'll be fine. Help her, please."

"That's our job," the man said, not unkindly, then turned to his partner. "Okay, on three. One … two … three." With the smoothness of long practice, they got Sophia up on to the … gurney, that was what he'd called it, then lifted it back up to waist-height with a smooth clattering of metal. Then they started moving it back toward the ambulance, muttering things like "thready" and "expanders" to each other. She couldn't see properly, due to her seat on the gutter, and her legs really didn't want to get up.

The driver came up with a second gurney. "Miss … Hebert, was it? We need to treat you too." he collapsed the gurney beside her. She had to admit, the thin mattress looked very inviting. "Come on, I'll help you across."

"Okay," she said dubiously. She forced her legs to move, lifting her up and across on to the gurney, holding her right arm to stop it from moving.

He helped her ease down on to her back, then frowned. "What's wrong with your right arm?"

"I think it's broken," she mumbled. "I fell on it." She didn't want him to touch it. Even thinking about it made it hurt more.

"The shoulder looks wrong," he said. "Could be dislocated. I can try to put it back, but it's gonna hurt."

"More than it already does?" she mumbled. She found that hard to believe.

"For a little bit, yeah," he said frankly. "The alternative is, once we get you into the ambulance, we can give you some painkillers. When you get to the hospital, they can put it back in and you won't feel a thing." He clipped something on to her index finger, then started checking her over, asking professional questions about where she was injured.

It only took a minute or so for her to be loaded into the back of the ambulance alongside Sophia. With the oxygen mask over her face, Sophia looked even smaller and more fragile than when she was lying at Taylor's feet in the gutter.

"We're going to need a statement about who did this to them," one of the cops said, leaning into the ambulance.

"Follow us to the hospital," said one of the paramedics tersely. "This one needs serious medical care, stat." He gestured to the driver, who pushed the doors shut. Briefly, he turned to Taylor. "I can put you on a drip—"

"No!" Taylor said hastily. "Don't put me out. I want to be here for her."

He seemed to be about to say something, then one of the machines they'd attached to Sophia went beep, and he shrugged and turned his attention away from Taylor. "Whatever. If you change your mind, give me a shout."

The ambulance engine started first, then the siren. Taylor did her best to hang on as the ambulance peeled out of there.

<><>​

The ambulance ride was the most harrowing experience that Taylor had ever undergone, and that included the torture session with the Merchant assholes. The pain that still spiked through her body wasn't the worst part. She wasn't getting inured to it, so much as it was becoming her new normal. At worst, it was a distraction from watching what was going on with Sophia.

Of course, she didn't know what was happening with Sophia. All she could do was guess whether it was good or bad. She didn't know how to interpret the outputs of the machines, and the terse conversation of the EMTs didn't help much either. Their expressions and body language worried her, a lot. But they kept working, which meant Sophia was still alive. Be okay, she prayed. Please be okay.

Distantly, she heard the wailing siren of the cop car as it sped ahead of the ambulance. It carved through the minimal traffic, making a way forward so the ambulance didn't have to slow down or stop.

When the ambulance did screech to a halt, Taylor looked around in confusion. "Why are we stopping?" she mumbled.

"'Cause we're here," one of the paramedics said. A moment later, the rear doors opened. "This one first!" the paramedic continued, pointing at Sophia. "First name Sophia. GSW, internal bleeding." The rest was lost as he jumped down to the ground and assisted in pulling Sophia's gurney out of the ambulance.

Next up was Taylor's gurney. Willing hands hauled it out of the ambulance, even as she was considering scrambling out—as much as she could scramble right at that moment—to see where Sophia had gone. The cops were waiting as she emerged.

"How soon can we talk to her?" asked the one on the right.

"Christ, have some sensitivity," said a tired-looking doctor with wispy blonde hair framing her face. "Her friend's been shot, and she looks like she's been worked over with a baseball bat. Before anyone talks to anyone, I've got to make sure she's not hurt worse than she looks."

Taylor wondered about the doctor's sensitivity, but she had other matters to worry about. "Sophia," she slurred. "Is she going to be okay?"

"I'm sure she will be," the doctor said automatically. She picked up the chart. "Says here you've got potentially fractured ribs. Do you have any trouble breathing? Sharp pains when you inhale?"

"No." Taylor shook her head, then winced. "My ribs just hurt. Head hurts. Eye hurts. Nose hurts. Face hurts. Mouth hurts. Teeth hurt. Arm hurts." She twisted her neck to look toward where Sophia had disappeared to. "I want to see Sophia. Make sure she's okay."

The doctor sighed and pushed her hair back out of her eyes. "Sweetie, we're not going to know one way or the other until Doctor Branson's had a chance to help her. In the meantime, I need to check you over. Have you been given any painkillers yet?"

"No," Taylor mumbled. "I told them not to. They needed to help Sophia. Besides, it's all my fault she got hurt."

"Why's that?" asked the cop. "Miss, if you can tell us anything about who did this to you, it would help a great deal with our investigation."

"One second, boys," the doctor said curtly. "Miss … Hebert, wasn't it? Hold still, please. Look straight at the light." She leaned over Taylor with a flashlight in her hand, holding her eyelid open with one hand. "Okay, I don't want to mess with the other eye until that swelling goes down, but pupil reflex seems normal." She looked more closely. "Though we're going to have to deal with that burn. Did someone put out a cigarette on your eye?"

Involuntarily, Taylor clenched her eyes shut, which made the burn—heretofore having merged with the background noise of her ongoing pain—jump all the way to the front of the queue again. "Uh huh."

"Can we ask her some questions now?" asked the cop.

"Might you at least wait until I give her something for the pain?" asked the doctor tartly. Her lips tightened. "This girl has been through the equivalent of a car accident."

"Doc, she's a skinny thing," said the other cop in a reasonable tone. "How sure are you that your painkiller won't knock her out altogether?"

"Don't knock me out," mumbled Taylor. "I want to make sure Sophia's okay." Her guilt swelled again.

The cop seized the opportunity. "Okay, then. What the hell happened to you, anyway?"

She almost blurted out the truth, then caught herself in time. "She … we … we were going for a walk. There were some guys, in a car. They came out of nowhere. They grabbed us and beat us up. We got knocked out. I woke up first. We were in some kind of Merchant den. They tried to do something with me, but a cape busted in and beat them up pretty bad. Sophia and I got out, but she got shot. I don't think the cape who saved us knew that. She was gone by the time we got outside." Her voice trailed off. It was near enough to the truth, and she didn't have to worry too much about recalling awkward details.

"Jesus shit." It was the other cop. "Motherfucking Merchants." He scribbled in his notebook. "You'll be able to show us where this was, right?"

"Maybe, I guess," Taylor said. "It all happened pretty fast."

The cop nodded and took a note. "Did you at least get a look at the guy who grabbed you? Or the ones in the place the cape got you out of?"

"Not really," she confessed. That bit had happened too fast.

"This cape," said the first cop. "You said 'she'. Did you get a good look at her, at least?"

"Who else is it gonna be?" asked the second cop. "Ten gets you one it's that shadow girl. The one with the crossbow."

"She kill any of them?" asked the first cop. "I won't be complaining if she has, mind you."

"I don't know," Taylor said, and it was true. She didn't know, but she certainly suspected. Neither man in the hideout had been moving or making a sound when she and Sophia left. Not that this made her feel any better about the whole affair. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's all my fault.

"So, uh," said the cop. "I'm just wondering. Your friend got shot, but there's not another mark on her. You look like you tangled with Hookwolf on a bad day. Any idea why they went so rough on you?"

Taylor was still searching for an answer when another gurney came in through the doors. "Got a bad one!" called a voice. "Crashing hard! Code blue, code blue, code blue!"

"Shit," muttered the blonde doctor. She turned her head to look; almost involuntarily, Taylor's eyes followed hers.

What happened next would be imprinted on her mind's eye forever. The gurney was rushed past with people on either side, a doctor actually performing CPR on the run. An oxygen mask had been placed over the person's face, but that didn't matter. She would've known that face anywhere. Covered in blood, looking as beat up as she felt, she still recognised him instantly. "Dad!"

"What?" The two cops looked at each other, then at Taylor. "That's your father?"

"Yes!" Weakly, Taylor began to try to struggle off of the gurney. "What's happening? Where are they taking him?"

"Emergency surgery," the doctor said crisply, putting her arm across Taylor's chest to keep her on the gurney. Flicking her eyes to the nearest cop, she went on. "Find out what happened. I'm taking Miss Hebert to an exam room to clean her up and get some painkillers into her."

Taylor struggled weakly, but the doctor flipped the restraints across her and clipped them down with the ease of long experience. With only one working arm, Taylor wasn't going anywhere. Realising that she wasn't getting free in a hurry, she slumped back on to the gurney. "Dad," she whispered. "Sophia." Her world was beginning to crumble around her in slow motion. The two pillars of strength in her life—one old and one new—were grievously injured. How and why her father had been hurt, she had no idea, but she instinctively knew it was somehow due to her actions. Did he go out looking for me and get into trouble? She had no way of knowing.

Once in the examination room, the doctor drafted a nurse into checking Taylor over properly, while she updated the chart. A painkiller and a muscle relaxant were administered, whereupon the nurse quickly and efficiently put Taylor's shoulder back into place. Her nose was likewise re-set, then splinted into place. Careful examination of her eye revealed that while there was a little damage to the sclera from the heat of the cigarette, the major problem from that would come from scarring to the eyelid itself.

Taylor was just starting to drift in the embrace of the painkillers when there was a knock on the examination room door. The doctor answered it, and Taylor heard the voice of the cop from before. Due to the quiet in the room, she heard nearly every word.

" … about eight of them just drove up to the house and kicked in the door. Neighbours called nine-one-one after the ruckus started. He put up a good fight. Half of them are gonna need treatment and there's a couple they don't think are gonna pull through. But they sure went to town on him. Still dunno why …"

Taylor sank back on to the mattress, the temporary good feeling from the painkillers having altogether disappeared. Oh, god. They somehow figured out who I was, and they attacked Dad over it. Over me. Her mood, which had cautiously begun to elevate with the cessation of pain, plummeted once more. The machine to which she was hooked up immediately began to beep warningly.

"Okay, thank you. You can go now," the doctor said hastily. She shut the door and hurried back to Taylor's side. "What's the matter? What happened?"

"I have no idea," the nurse said. "A minute ago, she was fine." She turned to Taylor. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

"Dad," whispered Taylor, squeezing her good eye shut and feeling hot tears force themselves out. "I did this. It's my fault."

"It's not your fault," the nurse said briskly. "Whoever attacked your father, it's on them. Not on you." She reached for the painkiller drip, probably to increase the dose, but there was another knock on the door before she got there.

"What is it now?" muttered the doctor. She went to the door and opened it. Taylor saw two different nurses' aides standing outside. "Whatever it is, can it keep?"

Just for a few short seconds, all sound in the room ceased. It was the sort of silence that can fall into a crowded room when everyone pauses at once. Into that silence dropped nine words. Even though they were spoken over each other, Taylor heard them all perfectly.

"Mr Hebert—"

"Sophia Hess—"

"—passed on."

"—didn't make it."

Dad. Sophia.

Taylor's world crashed and burned. Every last fragment of it exploded into ruin. Her heart swelled in her chest, then disintegrated in a maelstrom of fury and loss. The machine beeped louder and louder until it was one long unending tone. Every part of her body locked up as she screamed.

When she opened her eyes again, the world looked utterly different. All was darkness. Mere material objects were ghostly white objects here and there. Colour had fled her world, as had ordinary light. There were four beings clustered around her; one close by, and three a little distance away. More could be seen through the immaterial walls that surrounded her.

Each of the beings consisted of a white ghostly skeleton beneath a glaring light so bright that she had to shade her eyes and look away. The lights were constellations of supernovae, intricate but still too bright for her to look at directly.

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. All the pain had gone away, and she felt stronger than ever. Cords attached to the beeping machine impeded her progress. She didn't need or want them any more, so she pulled them all off of her. One was attached to her wrist, but she yanked that one off as well.

"Holy shit!" That was the nurse, but her voice was now much farther away, sounding through an echo chamber. "Miss, you need to get back into bed." She went to push Taylor backward, but a simple brush of her arm sent the skeleton with its attached light sprawling to the floor.

"No, I don't." Taylor moved toward the door. It didn't matter that her glasses were long gone. She had no trouble focusing now. "Take me to Sophia and my father. Right now." She'd let them take her away from the two people she cared most about in the world, and that was on her. No more.

"Miss—" The nurse, climbing to her feet, tried to protest again.

"Hennessy, keep back." That was the doctor, her voice also hollow and far away. "Do you see her eyes? Congratulations, you just witnessed a trigger event. Be glad you're still alive. Miss Hebert, can you understand me?"

"I understand you." Taylor was understandably cautious, although a little confused. A 'trigger event' was where someone got powers. She knew that much from popular culture. Did I just get powers? Am I a cape now? "Where are Dad and Sophia? I need to see them."

"Are you sure?" asked the doctor. "You've already been through a lot today. Putting yourself under more stress—"

Reaching out, Taylor took hold of the door handle. It felt lightweight and flimsy, the type of handle the lowest bidder might put on a hospital examination room. Still, before today, she could not have done what she now did. Taking a firm grip—with her right hand, even—she twisted hard. The snap echoed oddly in her ears, and she tossed the bent metal handle on to the floor. "I'm sure," she said.

" … right." Even as unused to the hollow tone as she was, Taylor thought the doctor's voice held more caution than before. "I'll take you to see them."

"Thank you." Taylor followed the doctor out of the examination room. She seemed to recall that there'd been a mirror in the room but if there was, it didn't seem to work in the odd shadow-space that her eyes were currently inhabiting. Around them, people kept up the regular business of a hospital, visible through the ghostly walls. "Does this happen often? Trigger events, I mean."

"Not in the hospital, thank God," the doctor said. "When they get here, the worst is usually over. Yours is an unusual case." She made a motion with her too-bright head as if she were looking Taylor up and down. "You're moving much more easily. Did you just heal all your injuries?"

"I guess so?" Taylor shrugged. "I don't know how this works any more than you do. All I know is that I need to see Sophia and Dad right now."

The doctor sighed sadly "I suppose closure is important. In here."

An insubstantial-looking door opened before her, and Taylor stepped into a room that felt a few degrees colder. On gurneys in front of her were two skeletal forms like everyone else she'd seen, except for the heads. The constellations were still there, but now she could look at them directly. Moving forward, she stared at them in fascination. Slowly, she put out her hand toward the taller one, who she guessed was her father. The guilt almost drove her to her knees.

I'm sorry, Dad. I should've been a better daughter. I wish I could change places with you.

After a few moments of silence, she turned to Sophia. Her miscalculations and idiotic decisions were coming back to haunt her, all over again.

I got you killed. I'm sorry. If I could go back in time and fix this, I would.

Silently, she stood there for several minutes, eyes closed, tears trickling out from under the lids and running down her face. There was nothing she could do or say to alleviate the pain she felt at her own inescapable mistakes. The fact that she seemed to now have minor super-strength and weird vision was now just a layer of shitty icing on a horrifically crappy day. I killed my Dad and my best friend, and I got powers out of it. How is that fair?

With one final sigh of regret, feeling as drained as though she'd just run a marathon, she turned toward the door. "Okay," she said out loud. "I don't know—"

Something moved behind her. She turned to look, just as she heard the doctor's almost silent whimper. Sophia had just sat up on her gurney and was looking around. No longer merely a skeleton with a constellation for a head, it was actually Sophia. In this world of darkness, she stood out like a beacon against a black hole. On the other gurney, her father had also just sat up with a bemused expression on his face. The wounds that had been inflicted on him were still in evidence, and his pants were covered in blood.

"Well, that's different," said Sophia.



End of Part Six

Part Seven

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Seven: A New Lease on Death


[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Taylor

"Dad? Sophia? You're alive? You're alive!" I flung myself into my father's arms, holding him tightly. "Oh, god, they told me you were dead and I thought I was all alone, and—"

"Breathe, Taylor." Dad squeezed me in his arms. "I'm all right." He paused. "Well, I'm alive, and I don't seem to be in much pain, and I'm not nearly as agitated as I should be, given that my last memories seem to be of being attacked by a bunch of lowlives … hmm."

"I am so, so sorry about that," I babbled. "They beat me up, like a lot, but I'm pretty sure I didn't tell them anything about me, but they must've somehow figured out where I lived, and …"

"And Merchants be Merchants," Sophia filled in. She was looking down at where her clothing had been cut away around the bullet wound. "Huh. I've still got a hole in my side, but I'm not bleeding." Experimentally, she prodded it. "That's weird, too."

"Well, don't stick your finger in it!" I let go of Dad and went to look. Sure enough, there was no blood coming from the wound. "I don't know why it's not bleeding, but we've got to get it checked out as soon as possible. Your stuff too, Dad." Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wondered why they weren't freaking out as badly as I was.

"I've got to call this in." The doctor's voice, still giving the impression of someone shouting down the length of a train tunnel, intruded on my thoughts.

I turned, quickly. "No!" If she informed the authorities, they might take Sophia and Dad away. I might never see them again.

There was real regret in her tone. "I'm sorry, but I have to."

She was at the door already; I was too far away to stop her from leaving. But Sophia literally blurred into action, crossing the room in her shadow state and reforming next to the doctor. "If Taylor says you stay, doc, you fuckin' well stay." One hand closed the door again, while the other plucked the doctor's hand from the handle.

"Leave me alone!" The doctor tried to pull away from Sophia's grasp. "Let me go! You're hurting me!"

Sophia shoved her almost gently; she staggered several steps back. "Don't be such a wuss. I barely touched you."

"Don't hurt her, Sophia." I took a deep breath. "Doctor, I really, really don't want you to call the cops or the PRT or whatever. And I don't want anyone at all to get hurt. Can we just work together on this? Please?"

Dad's right hand had been badly mangled, the fingers twisted every which way. As he spoke, he pulled the fingers straight, one at a time. I flinched and looked away.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Taylor." His voice was calm, almost speculative. "Why are your eyes glowing like that?"

"My eyes are glowing?" The doctor had told the nurse to look at my eyes. I supposed that was what she'd meant. "What do you mean, glowing?"

Sophia lounged against the door, but kept half an eye on the doctor anyway. "He means your eyes are basically glowing pure white. And you haven't blinked in forever."

I was pretty sure I'd blinked, but eyes glowing white? That was definitely new. "So, uh, doctor, what are the legal ramifications for bringing my father and my best friend back to life?" I wondered how long-dead someone would have to be before my power wouldn't work. Then I wondered where I could get a shovel from. Emma.

The doctor shrugged; that gesture, at least, I could see on a ghostly skeleton. "Well, legally speaking, it would normally be considered interfering with a corpse, but—"

Sophia made a rude noise. "Hell with that! I'm no corpse and anyway, I'm right on board with whatever she did. So they can take their 'interfering' and shove it where the sun don't shine."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that … Sophia, was it?" Dad's voice was calm, analytical. He had two fingers from his now-straightened right hand pressed against a spot on his left wrist. "Can you find a pulse? Because I can't."

"What?" Sophia's eyes widened. "Oh, hell nope." Quickly, she duplicated his action. A look of intense concentration crossed her face.

"Can you find one?" I asked. Please let her find one.

Looking irritated, she swapped hands. "No, dammit! Let me try again."

"You won't find one." The doctor sounded more tired than scared now. "Your gunshot wound isn't bleeding and it hasn't closed. There's no blood circulating in your body." She held up something flat and round with vague lines leading off from it. A stethoscope? I was pretty sure she'd been wearing one around her neck before all this happened. "I can make certain, if you want."

"So what does this mean?" I asked Dad. "You guys are walking and talking, but you don't have heartbeats? What's happening? What should I do?"

"Before we jump into decisions, let's see how the doctor goes with Sophia," he said soothingly. "There's a chance we're all missing something really obvious here."

Dubiously, I eyed a nasty cut on his left arm. It looked really painful, but it wasn't bleeding and he didn't even seem to have registered that it was there. "Hold still," I said, and reached out to pinch it closed. As I did so, something seemed to flow from me into him, and the cut just … healed. All that was left was a faint red line. "Whoa, ugh," I groaned as the room wobbled around me.

"Honey, are you okay?" His strong arms supported me. "What just happened?"

"I don't know." I shook my head, then regretted it as the room spun in directions physics wasn't meant to go. "I didn't like seeing you hurt, so I tried to hold the cut together. Then it closed on its own accord, but it felt like I just ran a marathon or something."

"Here, have a seat." I could barely see the chair, but he guided me into it. Sitting down was a relief. He prodded the closed cut. "Well, that's definitely impressive. I think you healed it."

"Damn." I breathed deeply, feeling the dizziness begin to recede. "Okay, I'm feeling better. Let me see what else you need to get done."

"Don't push yourself too hard," he cautioned me. "The glow from your eyes isn't nearly as strong as it was earlier."

"Seriously?" It was kind of irritating for him to be able to see how my power was doing when I couldn't. "Well, I'm not surprised. I wonder if that's how Panacea does it, and if it is, how she does it. Closing one cut wrecked me."

"She's been doing it for a lot longer." He shrugged. "Maybe it takes practice?"

"Don't give me that!" Sophia's voice rose from where the doctor was examining her. "I'm walking, all right? I'm talking! I'm about thirty seconds away from kicking your ass! I'm not fuckin' dead!"

But something about her protest sounded … off. Just as Dad was being far more cool and analytical than anyone in his position should rightfully be, she sounded like an amateur actor reciting the lines she'd been given. Almost as if she thought she should be making a fuss, so she was, but more out of habit than actual emotion.

"I'm guessing you found no life signs?" asked Dad, raising his eyebrows at the dirty look Sophia sent him.

"None whatsoever." Even through whatever was making her voice hollow and distant, the doctor sounded … resigned. "Sophia's body is gradually losing heat. There is no discernible pulse or other bodily function going on. Pain response is dulled, and every nervous reflex I tested is either absent or nearly so. Were it not for the fact that she is consciously responsive to stimuli, I would have no hesitation in signing a death certificate."

"I'm going to presume that the same will apply to me," Dad said. "But you can check if you like." He pointed at the healed cut on his arm. "I'm interested in what you might make of that."

"What?" The doctor leaned forward, forcing me to look away from Dad or be dazzled by the light of the supernova that made up her head. "Did you just heal that? How did you just heal that?"

"I, I wanted it to be fixed," I confessed. "So I … did it?"

"Okay, now I know why they all told me not to go into parahuman medicine," the doctor muttered, just loud enough to be heard. "You'll be making the rules up as you go along. Got it, guys." She took a deep breath. "So, the people you bring back can't heal themselves, but you can fix their injuries? Can you do it again?"

"I guess I can? But it tires me out to do it." Then I looked at Sophia and my resolve hardened. She'd come back to save my sorry ass, and gotten shot in the process. It was my fault, and my fault alone, that she was dead. Maybe if I fixed the wound that had killed her, she could come alive again? I had no idea what I was doing, not really, but I was willing to give it a damn good try. "Sophia, come here."

"Sure thing," she said, sauntering over. "Hey, Taylor's dad. Keep an eye on the doc here? Don't want her running off and blabbing to everyone what Taylor can do, huh?"

"The name's Danny," he retorted, giving her a dry look. "And if I'm reading between the lines correctly, I get the impression that you're the one behind my daughter getting powers and me getting killed. If I were still alive, I suspect I'd be extremely angry about now."

"Ooh, I'm scared." But the retort lacked sting. My suspicion that she was running on teenage reflex grew stronger than ever. "Okay, Taylor, do your thing."

I reached out and covered the bullet wound with the palm of my hand. Gritting my teeth, I prepared to draw on whatever I'd used to heal Dad before.

"Wait!" The doctor came closer. "Do you have to cover it? If I could observe the process, that could yield invaluable data."

"Geez, doc, buy me dinner first, huh?" Sophia shook her head. "Fuckin' geeks."

"I'm a fuckin' geek," I said without heat. Shifting my hand, I moved my thumb so that it and my forefinger were framing the wound. "Geeks make the world go round. Or at least we make the trains run on time."

"Yeah, but you're different." Sophia's contrariness ran bone-deep, I decided. I got the impression that her first word had been 'no', and she hadn't changed her attitude since. "You're not boring. And you're willing to learn how to kick ass."

I looked up at her, raising my eyebrows. "So when were you going to teach me how to kick ass, instead of throwing me in at the deep end? I had no idea what I was doing, and it got you and Dad killed. It nearly got me killed." Before I could change my mind, I fixed my attention on the wound, and pushed.

It was a good thing I was sitting down. The room spun in great circles, and my vision flickered. Sophia staggered, as if I'd gut-punched her. "Oof," she grunted. "Warn a girl first, will you?"

I fought not to pass out, taking deep breaths of air. It didn't help that what I was seeing kept switching back and forth between a normal room and the weird x-ray vision of before. The doctor, leaning in, had a look of utter fascination on her face, replaced intermittently with the light of a thousand suns.

"Taylor." Dad sounded moderately concerned. "Your eyes are going out."

"I … they're what again, now?" The weird vision had been the norm before, but now it was extremely tiring to maintain. When my eyes flicked over to normal vision, I didn't feel nearly as exhausted. "Like this?" Consciously, I made the switch. Dad and Sophia still looked the same, but the surrounding room was just a boring room again, and the doctor was a human being instead of a supernova atop a skeleton.

"Like that." Sophia's voice was dry. "Except now they're bottomless pits of blackness. Congratulations, you're now even creepier than before."

"Says the girl who turns into shadow," I retorted. "Can I get a mirror or something? I need to see."

"Mm, hang on." The doctor looked like she wanted to strap Sophia to a table and examine her to within an inch of her … whatever passed for 'life' these days, but she dragged her attention away to look at me. "Oh. Definitely different. One second."

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she fiddled with it, then turned the screen toward me. I saw myself for the first time since … well, since sneaking out of the house as Night Girl. Fuck, that was a stupid name.

Where before my eye had been massively swollen, to the point that I couldn't open it, I merely had a fading bruise on the cheekbone. The burn in the corner was no longer visible. My nose was still broken—which was possibly a problem, because it had healed that way—and there were a few other scars on my face. In summary, I looked like shit.

But even that paled before the fact that everything inside both eyesockets was … black. Not just dark, but the kind of impenetrable blackness that I imagined someone would see if they went to the edge of the universe and looked outward. And it wasn't just my eyes themselves, but the lids as well. When Sophia had called them bottomless pits, she hadn't been exaggerating in the slightest. There was no depth to them, or maybe the depth was infinite.

There was a click and I was looking into the beam of a penlight torch. "Hey, do you mind?" I grumbled. I squinted, which made it easier to bear.

"It's not a cover over your eye," the doctor reported. "Or if it is, it's absorbing absolutely all the light that's hitting it. But I doubt it. There's no reflection, no indication that there's anything there at all. Are you sure you've still got eyes?"

Bringing my hand up, I closed my eye and rubbed my fingertip over the closed lid. "Yeah, pretty sure."

The doctor muttered something along the lines of 'powers are bullshit' before clicking the penlight off. "Yeah, I'm not going to learn any more with this."

At that moment, the door opened and a young man leaned in. He was dressed in scrubs, which I figured made him some sort of nurse or intern. "Doctor, I heard a noise. Is everything— holy shit!"

"Everything's fine," the doctor said hastily. "Don't hurt him, please." The addendum came because Sophia had once more crossed the room using her Breaker ability, and dragged him inside.

"Nobody's gonna get hurt, but your boy here's got a big mouth." Sophia waved her finger in front of the guy's face. "Shut it."

The guy's eyes swivelled sideways to the doctor. "Uh … weren't they dead? I'm pretty sure they were dead."

Sophia's hand closed into a fist and drew back. "I said to shut it!"

"Sophia!" I said sharply. "Don't hurt him." I was brand-new to this kind of situation, but I could still figure out that hurting medical personnel was a one-way ticket to a Bad Scenario.

"Yes, Rodney, they were dead," said the doctor wearily. "Now ... I'm not sure what they are. It's a powers thing, apparently."

"Are you kidding, doc?" Rodney yanked his arm free of Sophia's grip, which surprised me; from the way she'd been manhandling the doctor before, I'd thought she was stronger than that. Going by her expression, she was more than a little taken aback as well. But Rodney was still talking. "Dead people getting up and walking around? What does that say to you? It says 'zombies' to me!"

"Hey, I'm not a fuckin' zombie!" Sophia grabbed him again. "I'm as alive as you and the doctor there!" She forced his arm into a compliance hold. "Could a zombie do this?"

"Ow! Hey, maybe." He struggled and nearly pulled free, but she maintained the hold. "You could be a fast zombie."

Dad sighed. "Sophia, let him go. Young man, is it really the best idea to convince the person holding you that she might be a zombie?"

"And can we not throw around the 'z' word, please?" I moved over to where Sophia was still holding Rodney and tugged on her arm to make her let him go. She did so reluctantly; he pulled away and stood there glaring at her. "That's got all sorts of bad connotations." I waved my hand in front of his face to get his attention. "I'm talking to you. This is my dad and my best friend we're talking about, here."

"Which raises an interesting point." The doctor pointed at another drawer. "We have a guy in there, no next of kin. We're pretty sure he's a Merchant. Came in the same time as you three. I'm wondering if it's the emotional connection that allowed you to bring your father and your friend back, or if you can do it with anyone."

"I'm not sure if this is a good idea." Dad moved closer to me, protectively. "Taylor is still very new to this, and she just wore herself out fixing Sophia's injuries."

"Which, if anyone's interested, are totally gone," Sophia announced, prodding the area of skin where the bullet had gone in. Now, only a tiny puckered scar marked the spot.

"No, wait, this is a really bad idea." Rodney waved his hands frantically. "In the movies, it always starts with let's see if we can raise one more person from the dead and ends with a zombie apocalypse."

"Young man," Dad said firmly, "do I look like the sort of person to involve myself in an apocalypse of any kind?"

"Yeah." Sophia gave Rodney the finger. "Now shut it before I give you a Shadow Stalker apocalypse." She saw my expression and said, "What? He's already seen me go to shadow. If he knows what's good for him, he'll keep his mouth shut."

"I'm willing to give it a try," I said slowly. Not only was I curious about the point the doctor had raised, but it would also give me the chance to observe my power in action, rather than just doing it by accident.

Suddenly, Rodney turned and bolted from the room. The door slammed behind him. Puzzled, I looked at Sophia.

"What?" she asked. She was halfway across the room, having given chase far too late. "Little shit was too quick for me."

"He wasn't earlier," I pointed out.

"Caught him by surprise, then," she said grumpily. "And I didn't think chasing him would be a great idea. It would be really hard to convince everyone else that I wasn't a fuckin' zombie."

I blinked, impressed. Sophia, thinking before acting?

She glowered at the closed door. "And besides, I was a lot faster earlier. Stronger, too."

"Okay, that's weird." I looked at her and Dad, concerned. Did my power have a time limit? Were they about to collapse and die all over again? I didn't feel like anything was counting down.

The doctor also looked concerned, but her attention was directed toward the closed door. "Rodney's always been a little excitable," she observed. "Zombies, indeed. The very idea." Her tone was uncertain, as though she was trying to convince herself of what she was saying.

"I know, right?" Sophia rolled her eyes. She didn't seem to be running out of energy. "Trust me, doc, I have no desire to eat your brains." A frown crossed her face. "Matter of fact, I'm not hungry at all. And it's gotta be well after midnight."

"Well, no circulation means we shouldn't need to eat or breathe," Dad pointed out. "Which we can try out at any time. Right now, I'm also curious about whether Taylor can revive other people."

"I have no desire to create anything that can be mistaken for a zombie horde," I said hastily. "Not an expert here, but I'm reasonably sure the PRT wouldn't be too happy about it."

"Yes, but think of the assistance you could give to the police," the doctor exclaimed, gesturing excitedly. "How easy would it be to solve murder cases if they can ask the victim who did it?"

I shuddered as a mental image occurred of me reanimating a skeleton, then handing him a pen and paper to write down his testimony. "That could get really creepy, really fast."

"Why?" asked Dad blankly. "I'm willing to testify against everyone I can identify who attacked me."

"If you're dead, are you still considered a person capable of giving testimony?" I was more than a little dubious about this. "And what if they decide I'm just a Master who's controlling you like puppets?" A sudden doubt crossed my mind. "Shit, what if I am just a Master who's controlling you like puppets?" I knew how Sophia and Dad acted, after all. And in fact, they had been a little 'off' since I'd brought them back. Here I thought I had them alive again (for an extremely lax definition of the word 'alive') while in reality I might just have been guiding them in a sick reunion fantasy. And if I was far enough divorced from reality, I might not even know I was doing it.

"Pfft, as if." Sophia scoffed at the very idea. "No asshole Masters me. And I know you, Taylor. You wouldn't pull that shit on me or your dad. You're too much of a straight arrow."

"Yeah, but what if I don't know I'm doing it?" I didn't want to give voice to my fears, but someone had to hear them. "What if this is all me with … I don't know … multiple personalities pretending to be you and Dad? How would I know the difference?" I felt my heart rate increase. Was I about to lose Sophia and Dad again? Had I ever really gotten them back?

"For fuck's sake." Sophia stomped over to me and grabbed the front of my shirt. "Get a grip on yourself, Taylor! You're not fuckin' Mastering me! Here, I'll prove it!" Letting go with her right hand, she pulled it back in what was obviously going to be a bitch-slap of epic proportions. I winced but braced myself, closing one eye. If this was what it took to prove her point, I'd wear the slap.

But it never landed. I opened my eye and looked at her; with a baffled expression, she was staring at her hand as it hung half an inch from my face. "The fuck?" she muttered.

"What just happened?" I asked.

"Her hand just slowed and stopped." The doctor looked fascinated. "Did you consciously prevent her from hitting you?"

"No!" I looked at Sophia, who glared back at me. "I swear, I didn't do anything. And I didn't make you do anything."

"So how come I can't hit you?" Sophia headed over to Dad and slapped him without warning. The crack of flesh on flesh echoed through the room. "Okay, I can hit you. So why not her?"

Dad seemed barely ruffled by the impact. "Maybe it's a safety mechanism on the part of the power?" He rubbed his chin, thinking. "This might actually prove that she's not a Master. If the power has to make sure that none of the people she revives can hurt her, then she's not controlling them in any meaningful fashion."

"Or Taylor is controlling you two like a puppet theatre and she can't quite bring herself to get slapped," the doctor countered. "Not that I think that's the answer, but it also fits the scenario."

We stared at each other, temporarily at an impasse. I didn't want to consider that I might be walking Sophia and Dad's corpses around like puppets, talking through their mouths and making them do things, all the while thinking that they were doing it of their own accord. But I couldn't figure out how to prove that I wasn't.

"Wait!" The doctor snapped her fingers. "Taylor, you know your dad well, obviously. But how well do you know Sophia?"

"Uh, kinda?" I hazarded. "We've hung out a bit?"

"Have you been to her address? Do you know where it is?"

My eyes widened as I realised where she was going with this. "No. No, I don't."

"Stonemast Avenue," Sophia recited immediately. "Number thirty-three. In fact, I can do better than that, doc. Got a phone?"

"Yes, of course." The doctor pulled out an older-model smartphone from her pocket and woke it up then handed it over. "What are you going to do?"

"You didn't know my last name, so you didn't get next of kin." Sophia said as she tapped in a number. "I'm just calling my big brother. His name's Terry. You can ask him if he's ever met Taylor." She held the phone to her ear. "Of course, it helps if the asshole actually picks up his phone once in a while."

A moment went by, during which time we watched Sophia fidget. I hadn't often seen her bored before, and she had a crapload of tells. First, she played with her hair, then she checked her nails, then she swapped sides with the phone so she could check her nails on the other hand, then she scratched her ear, then she pinched her earlobe between two fingernails … all in about thirty seconds.

"Oh, hey, bro," she said brightly. "Did I wake you? Sorry, not sorry. Listen, I'm kinda in a situation where I've got to identify myself, and … yeah, I'm not in bed. I'm not asleep. I'm out and about … what? Seriously? I can take care of myself." Dad raised his eyebrows at that, and she gave him the finger. "Anyway, Imma just gonna give the phone to someone and you can talk to them, okay?"

From the squeaky sounds coming out of the phone, her brother was not exactly pleased with her. I wouldn't have been either, to get woken up by phone call from a theoretical little sister at whatever the time was in the morning. Especially when that sister should really have been in bed asleep at the time.

The doctor took the phone and held it to her ear. "Hello? This is Doctor Frasier, at Brockton Bay General Hospital. Who am I speaking to, please?"

Okay, now I had a name for her. Good.

"Terry? Oh, good. Thank you." Her eyes widened and she nodded, then gave me a thumb's up. I felt a wash of relief; I hadn't known about Terry, much less his name, until Sophia told us. This meant I wasn't piloting a mindless corpse around under the delusion that it was actually my friend in there. "No, Sophia isn't in trouble with the police. There is a situation that you need to be filled in on, but it's not the sort of thing I want to do over the phone. No, it's not urgent. Sophia's situation is … stable. Unique, but stable. Yes, you can speak to her."

She passed the phone back to Sophia, who rolled her eyes. "Yeah, so it's no big. You can come over in the morning if you want … what, you're coming over now? Who's gonna be watching the brat? Wait, shit, you're waking Mom? There's a reason I called you and not her. She starts her shift in a couple hours. Fine. Fine. Fine. Knock yourself out."

With a huff of annoyance, she ended the call and handed the phone back. "He's coming in now," she explained unnecessarily. "And Mom's probably coming too, and they'll bring the brat, and Mom'll be giving me the third degree, and Terry'll back her up, and they'll find out that I was being Shadow Stalker when I got hurt, and it'll be so ugh." She finished with the back of her arm over her eyes in what was probably more of a dramatic gesture than she really intended.

"As a parent, I think it's important that you fill your family in on what's happened," Dad pointed out mildly. "You were killed, after all. That's something a parent needs to know about. Trust me on this one."

"But I got better!" she protested. I could hear her trying to keep the whine out of her voice, and not entirely succeeding. "It's all good."

I cleared my throat awkwardly. "Actually, you're still dead," I reminded her. "I didn't bring you back to life. I'm just … I guess I'm just letting you ignore it."

"And yes, you are going to have to tell her. Even though Taylor is letting you ignore it." Dad made his voice firm. "This is your mother. She deserves to know."

Sophia looked like she was sucking on a lemon. "Okay, so can we just tell her that I got popped in a drive-by or something, not that I was being Shadow Stalker?"

Dad sighed. "By now, it's probably halfway across the hospital that you're Shadow Stalker. I sincerely doubt you'll be able to keep it a secret from her. And secrets you admit to will be less likely to bite you on the ass than ones that she needs to drag out of you."

"No, not that I am Shadow Stalker," she said. "That I got hurt being Shadow Stalker. She knows about my powers already, but if she found out I got shot while I was out and about in costume, I'd never hear the end of it."

Dad met my eyes, and I shrugged. It seemed that Sophia's idea of an important priority was a little different to everyone else's; mine and his included. "I won't tell her if she doesn't ask," I temporised, "but if she asks, I'm not gonna lie."

"So what are you going to say if she asks why you were out and about at this time of night?" Dad asked Sophia. "Because I know what I would've said and done if I'd caught Taylor sneaking out tonight."

I had an idea of how he would've reacted, too. It wouldn't have been pretty, but it would definitely have been justified, given the actual result of me going out and about to fight crime with zero training and experience. Hindsight, as they said, was twenty-twenty.

The irony was all too obvious. Had he caught me and punished me, I would've been resentful and upset that he wasn't letting me do what I wanted. I might even have snuck out later anyway.

"Gonna lie my ass off, duh," Sophia said immediately. She shot me a sly grin. "Maybe I'll tell her Taylor's my girlfriend and I was sneaking out to see her, and some Empire assholes saw us kissing and decided to teach us a lesson or something."

I made a time-out gesture. "Wow, really? When were you gonna tell me that plan? Because it's got all the hallmarks of something that'll make me feel super awkward then go horribly wrong. Or to put it another way: if you try to kiss me, I will punch you in the face."

She smirked, Dad chuckled and even Doctor Frasier hid a smile. "That's fair," Sophia allowed. "Though I still think it's total bullshit that I can't even slap you."

The door opened, and we turned to look. A grey-haired man stepped into the room. Behind him was a large man wearing a security uniform.

"Ahem," he said. "Pardon my intrusion, but … Doctor Frasier, perhaps you can explain why Mr Stafford is running around in my hospital, telling people that a zombie invasion is imminent?" He paused and looked at me. "And young lady, whatever is the matter with your eyes?"

I guessed that 'Mr Stafford' was otherwise known as Rodney. "I'm a parahuman," I said bluntly. It wasn't like he wouldn't figure it out on his own, given enough clues. "I triggered tonight," I said. "So you won't have heard of me."

Doctor Frasier sighed and rubbed her thumb and forefinger over her forehead. "Rodney is doing that because Taylor here apparently has the ability to bring people back from the dead." She indicated Dad and Sophia. "Doctor Cartwright, meet Danny Hebert and Sophia Hess, both deceased shortly after arrival here in Brockton General. Danny, Sophia, meet Doctor Cartwright. He's the head of this wing."

Doctor Cartwright's eyebrows inched up on his forehead as he took in Dad's battered appearance. "Good morning, sir," Dad said, holding out his hand. Looking somewhat bemused, Cartwright shook it.

"Back from the dead, you say?" Cartwright said, turning back to Doctor Frasier.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Frasier indicated Dad and Sophia. "They can both pass for being alive. Quite easily, in fact. But their hearts aren't beating, their body temperatures are dropping, and most of their involuntary reflexes are absent. If it wasn't for the fact that they're not just conscious but walking and talking …" She let the sentence finish itself.

"I see." Cartwright looked more than a little disturbed. "So of course young Stafford imagined that you were perpetrating a zombie invasion upon us." He gave me an intense examination. "Well, young lady?"

"Well, uh, what?" I asked nervously.

"Are you attempting to start a zombie invasion?" he asked.

"No!" I protested. "I just wanted Dad and Sophia to be okay."

"A laudable goal." He turned from me to Dad. "Mr Hebert. Do you truly believe that you are dead?"

"I'm not sure what to believe," Dad confessed. "I was attacked in my own home by a bunch of men who beat and stabbed me to death, or so I'm told. My last recollection is of the fight starting. But since regaining consciousness, I've found my emotional responses to be somewhat flattened, I don't have a pulse, and breathing seems to be an optional extra for me. Everything I know says this is impossible. But we live in a world where the impossible merely takes a little longer."

"I still don't believe I'm dead." Sophia spoke up defiantly. "I feel great. Maybe I was just in a coma, and Taylor can heal people like Panacea can."

Doctor Frasier sighed. "Sophia, I examined you. You showed no signs of life, apart from the fact that you're walking and talking."

"There are several steps that need to be taken, post-haste." Cartwright clapped his hands together briskly. "First, I need to contact the PRT. Normally, we wouldn't worry them except pass on the word that someone triggered, no details needed. But I suspect that the Director will be most interested in knowing about someone who can bring back people from the dead, however temporarily."

Doctor Frasier nodded; I recalled her words about assisting the police with my power. "What else do we need to do, sir?"

"Well, then." Cartwright rubbed his chin, pinching the flesh together with his fingertips. "Once the PRT arrives, they will wish to take Miss Hebert away to their base where they can test her power; with her agreement, of course."

"Can I actually say no?" I asked dubiously. I didn't want Dad and Sophia tied down and dissected or something, just to test how effectively my power worked on their bodies. As Dad's next of kin, I figured I had the legal say over what happened to him. If Sophia's brother Terry didn't get here soon, however, the PRT might just decide to grab Sophia as both a parahuman and a raised person.

"Certainly," Cartwright said. "You've committed no crime, and any cooperation with them has to be by definition voluntary. You aren't a member of the Wards or the Protectorate, so they can't give you legal orders. What do you wish to do?"

"I … I guess, go home and get some sleep," I said. "Let me make it clear, spending time unconscious does not go toward sleep." I looked at Dad and Sophia. "I don't even know if you two even sleep any more. But there was also …" I trailed off.

Cartwright tilted his head. "There was also …?" he prompted.

Now I wished I hadn't said anything. "We were talking about testing my power on someone without any next of kin. A gang member. To see if everyone I brought back was friendly to me."

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin again. "That makes a certain amount of sense. And one they would be hard-put to test at the PRT building, unless they have recently-deceased cadavers. Which, to be honest, I would not be surprised to find out." His gaze sharpened on me. "How many people can you raise at once?"

"At least two," I said truthfully. "More, I'd have to find out."

He nodded. "And can you cut the connection with someone once you've raised them?"

"What, make them normally dead again?" The idea sounded weird in my head, like pulling the plug on someone who was on life support but still capable of communication. "I guess. I don't want to try it on Dad or Sophia, in case I can't bring them back a second time."

"It would be a good idea to find out as early as possible," he suggested. "Before the number of people you have returned to life becomes untenable." He turned to the security guard. "Simon, secure that door."

"Yes, sir, Doctor Cartwright," responded the guard. He was as tall as Dad but a lot bulkier across the shoulders. Going to the door, he snapped the lock over then stood in front of the door, arms crossed.

"Uh, sir?" Doctor Frasier seemed almost tentative, in stark contrast to her earlier enthusiasm to perform tests with my power. "Are we sure this is a good idea? Health and safety regulations—"

"We have here a young lady who seems capable of returning the dead to a strong semblance of life," Cartwright interrupted. "It is in the best interests of the city that we determine immediately what the limits of her power are." His eyes gleamed. "And, just between us here, I've often wondered how I would fare as a mad scientist. But I shall deny I ever said that, if anyone repeats it."

"It's alive! It's alive!" quoted Dad, with a wry smile.

"Very much so," agreed Doctor Cartwright. "Now, then. Doctor Frasier, I believe I heard mention of a cadaver that had no known next of kin?"

"Yes, sir." Doctor Frasier pointed at a hatch several places down. "This one came in tonight."

"Good." Doctor Cartwright actually rubbed his hands together. "Open it up. We shall see if Miss Hebert can work her magic upon it, or if she has already reached her limit."

Obediently, Frasier opened the hatch then pulled on the drawer. It slid out on its rollers, then clunked to a stop. The man lying on the stainless steel looked like he'd had a hard life, then been beaten to death with something blunt. I looked at Dad. "Chair," he murmured.

So this was one of the men who'd gone to attack Dad. I didn't know how I felt about that. On the one hand, it was a perfect test of whether I could bring back someone I didn't know or didn't like from the dead (and this guy hit both categories dead centre). And on the other, it was an equally good test to see if people I brought back were automatically under my influence or not.

Thirdly, of course, it would be good to know if my power could handle three people at once. And fourthly (if that was a word) I wanted to know if I could return people I'd revived to a state of actually being dead. This guy was the embodiment of 'expendable' on all counts.

Slowly, I stepped up alongside the cadaver. In death, his features had relaxed, so he looked a little puzzled or confused, instead of angry. Dad had landed a good one across his head, so his skull was a little indented there. This would also be a good test of whether brain damage was a deal-breaker, I guessed.

"Okay, everyone, get ready," I said. "I'm gonna do this." Putting my hand on his arm, I concentrated on making him come back to life.

Nothing happened.

I tried again, visualising him sitting up.

Still nothing.

Recalling what I'd done when I brought back Dad and Sophia, I turned away from him and walked toward the door. I got all the way to Simon before I stopped and looked around.

The guy was still dead.

"Damn it," I muttered.

"Is there a problem?" asked Cartwright.

"It's not working," I said. "I don't know what I did before that made it work. I guess I thought wanting it to happen was enough."

Sophia and Dad raised their hands at the same time. I looked at them. "What?"

Dad looked at Sophia and nodded. She smirked. "Your eyes were glowing white then, not black."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Pissed off with myself for totally forgetting that important detail, I concentrated on shifting back into the shadow-realm vision. It came more easily than I'd expected. Around me, the world changed. Walls became translucent, while the two doctors and Simon were now animated skeletons topped by overbright lights. Dad and Sophia were unchanged, and the guy on the slab was a skeleton with ordinary lights twinkling and slowly dying in his head.

Marching back to the table, I put my hand on his arm. "Wake up, already," I said irritably.

This time, because I was paying attention, I felt the tiny ping that kicked the transformation over. The guy on the slab went from skeleton to gang member over the course of about two seconds, then he opened his eyes and sat up. "What the fuck?" he asked, then stared at me. "Fuck, you're that bitch the guys caught. The fuck are you doing with me?"

"Calm down," I said, trying to hit a soothing tone, while fighting the urge to beat crap out of him. Call me a bitch, will you? "Things have changed. A lot."

"Fuck off!" he yelled and kicked at me, but his foot swerved then came to a stop half an inch from my gut. "The fuck?"

This guy had a serious potty mouth, but we'd already answered a few questions. It also seemed that a lot of his aggression was instinctual rather than thought-out. Either that, or he'd had serious anger issues in life.

"Hey, assmunch!" Sophia flowed into position as the guy scrambled off the far side of the slab. "Do what you're told or I'll kick your ass!"

He lunged forward, swinging a punch at impressive speed. She went to shadow and let it whiff through her, then turned solid and hammered both fists into his kidneys.

Which did exactly nothing.

I watched him turn his gaze from Simon at the door to the two doctors. "C'mere, bitch!" he snapped, and darted toward the shorter of the two, whom I assumed to be Frasier.

Belatedly, I realised that when I was in this state, people I raised were faster and stronger. That included Merchant assholes. Of the two, Sophia was the superior combatant, but without her crossbows, she had to depend on hitting weak spots on the human body; being dead, the Merchant had none.

"Dad!" I shouted, being on the back foot. "Stop him!"

Just before the guy got to Doctor Frasier, Dad intercepted him. When last they'd fought, the guy'd had the advantage of numbers on his side. He'd also probably been high as a kite, so his pain tolerance would've been insane. Now, only the pain tolerance remained.

Dad was taller and had a longer reach, and while he wasn't as angry as he would've been, he was still determined. I'd seen that determination last long past any normal person's endurance, day after day, year after year, working minor miracles to keep the Dockworkers afloat.

They came together with a bone-crunching thud, Dad actually driving the guy back a step. As the doctors hurriedly backed off, the two clawed at each other, punching and ripping and tearing. The only sounds that came from their throats were the grunts of pure exertion; neither had time for words.

And then I remembered the other question we'd had. With a sigh of something resembling regret, I looked at the guy currently wrestling with my Dad and thought, no.

Instantly, the pseudo-life went out of him. He reverted to a glowing skeleton, falling to the floor. But instead of a faint constellation in his head, his brain was totally black. There was nothing there. I was pretty sure that I could never bring him back.

Dad stumbled a few steps forward, then looked down at his opponent and back up at me. "You do that, Taylor?" he asked, as calm as ever.

"Yeah." I shrugged. "Sorry. I should've thought of it earlier."

"Not to worry." He smiled as he came over and laid his hand on my shoulder. "That was just a little bit satisfying, to get my licks in again. I don't suppose you could bring him back for another round? I just thought of some more moves I could use on him."

I shook my head. "I don't think there's anything in there I can use anymore. He's dead-dead."

"Good." Sophia came over to us and gave the corpse a kick. It shifted, but only to roll over from the force of the blow. "I didn't realise that he wouldn't feel things like kidney punches."

"Yeah." I looked around at Doctor Frasier. "Looks like this has been a learning experience all round. You okay over there?"

Her supernova shifted back and forth in what I assumed was a nod. "Yes," she said in her hollow, echoing voice. "I had a bad moment there, but your father got in the way."

"We are definitely going to have to institute more stringent safety precautions if and when we try that again," Doctor Cartwright said, his voice equally distant. "Still, I think the information we've collected is very interesting."

I shifted my perspective back to the real world. Dad looked a little the worse for wear, but I told myself I'd fix his injuries once we got home and I'd have time to recuperate between sessions. "I'm sorry," I said to the room at large. "I thought he'd be more reasonable."

There was a banging on the door, and I jumped. So did the two doctors, and the security guard. Dad and Sophia merely turned to look at it. "Wow," I said to Sophia. "Your brother really wants to see you."

"I don't think that's—" she began.

Untouched from our side, the lock clicked over. The door opened. "PRT!" shouted an armoured trooper. "Step aside!" As Simon hastily obeyed, the trooper entered the room. He was followed by a second and a third.

"Ah, shit," muttered Sophia. Silently, I echoed her.

The PRT had arrived.


End of Part Seven

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Eight: What Zombie Apocalypse?

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Taylor

Doctor Cartwright's shout cut across the room. "Stop right there! Identify yourselves! Are you aware of the situation? Is your armour sealed against infectious pathogens? Why did you open that door?"

As could be imagined, that brought the soldiers to a sudden halt. All three looked back at the doorway, which was currently occupied by the fourth soldier. The tableau froze for a few seconds, then the intern (Rodney, as I recalled) leaned in past the soldier and pointed at the gang member on the floor. "That's the one they were bringing back as a zombie!" he shouted.

"Mr Stafford!" thundered Dr Cartwright. "What is the meaning of this? Are you responsible for this intrusion?"

The trooper in front came to some sort of attention. "Lieutenant Grant, Parahuman Response Teams. We, uh, we were informed that there was a parahuman in this hospital who was raising dead people to create a zombie army." He looked around the room, at Doctor Frasier, then Dad, then Sophia, then finally me. "Miss, are you the parahuman he was talking about?"

I sighed. It looked like my secret identity was going to set a world record for brevity. "Yes, but not in the way that idiot seems to think."

"Those two were dead!" shouted Rodney from the door, pointing at Dad and Sophia. "They're zombies, I'm telling you!"

Sophia sneered and gave him the finger.

"Mr Stafford. Raise your voice one more time and you will be facing a disciplinary board." Dr Cartwright's tone was implacable. "You are already skating on very thin ice." He turned to the soldier. "We were just about to contact you with a more complete account of the situation," —his eye sought out Rodney once more— "but this young man seems to have jumped the gun with wild and completely inaccurate accusations."

"I see." It was impossible to determine the trooper's expression from the sound of his voice, but at least I hadn't been shot or covered in containment foam so far. "Is there a pathogen hazard in this room?"

"As far as I am aware, no," Cartwright conceded. "However, before you so precipitately entered, you had no way of knowing it was safe. This is a hospital and you had been made aware that there was a parahuman involved. There could have been anything in the air in here."

"And my report will reflect that," agreed Grant. "However; moving on. Can the young lady actually raise zombies from the dead?" His helmet turned until I could see a distorted reflection of my face in the visor, dead-black eyes and all. "And is she capable of turning that effect off?"

"No, she can't raise zombies," I snarked, my patience finally driven to an end. "And she can only change 'that effect' from one mode to another. She is also present in this room, and she can both hear and understand every word the Lieutenant is saying. Perhaps he could be so courteous as to address his questions to me instead of speaking as though I'm not even here?"

He cleared his throat, sounding a little embarrassed. "My apologies, miss. Why do you think that man claimed you were raising a zombie army?"

I had to give him credit. While I couldn't see his face, he didn't sound as though he was so much as cracking a smile. Of course, he undoubtedly had recording equipment going, so bursting out in laughter would probably not be good for his career.

"Because he's an idiot who didn't bother listening to a word I said," I said with a sigh. "I can kind of wake up people who died not long ago, but they aren't zombies." With the last two words, I glared at Rodney.

"Excuse me for sounding ignorant, miss, but would you mind defining the difference?" As Lieutenant Grant asked the question, I noted that he hadn't actually lowered his weapon very far. It would only take a few degrees of elevation and a twitch of his finger to cover me in containment foam.

Dad took that one up. "According to popular culture, zombies aren't very smart and usually have a taste for brains. Or at least, human flesh. Since my daughter reanimated me, I've experienced no indication of being hungry at all, much less any desire to be cannibalistic." He raised his eyebrows toward the officer. "As for my intelligence, feel free to test that at your leisure."

"And even if I was looking to chow down on some asshole's brainmeats, I'd skip that moron," sniped Sophia with a gesture at Rodney that became a middle finger raised in his direction. "He's so stupid, I'd end up hungrier than when I started."

Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Sophia. Not helping."

"Hey!" objected Rodney. "I'm not—"

"Mr Stafford." Dr Cartwright broke in, his tone freezing. "Go and mop the west wing corridors. Speak to nobody about this. I'm invoking patient confidentiality. Do you understand?"

"Uh, which corridors?" asked Rodney. "There's five floors—"

"Did I perhaps stutter?" Dr Cartwright raised his voice slightly. "All of them. Simon, go with him. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere else."

"Yes, Doctor Cartwright," responded the burly security guard.

I felt a little bad for Rodney as he left the room with Simon in tow, but not that bad. If he'd had his way, the PRT would've come in guns blazing (or at the least, containment foam spraying) and I would've been on the way to a holding cell right at that moment. Or a body bag.

The last thing I wanted was anyone creating panic over a hypothetical invasion of the undead, when it was really nothing of the sort.

"So the young man was correct, sir, and you … were dead?" Lieutenant Grant's voice hitched slightly, as if he wasn't quite sure about what he was saying.

"I suspect I still am, son." Dad threw in a warm chuckle, probably in an effort to put the guys with guns at ease. "Doctor Cartwright there says that I have no pulse and that my body temperature is gradually dropping. I personally feel no need to breathe, and I'm feeling no pain from any of my injuries."

"And you say your daughter brought you back? Are you sure it's not a high-end level of healing, like Panacea can do?" Lieutenant Grant certainly didn't want to let go of the point. Of course, phrases like 'back from the dead' tended to be met with a certain level of incredulity. "Or perhaps you've triggered with a power like Aegis has."

"If it's healing, then it's very idiosyncratic," Dad pointed out. "No pulse. No respiration. And if I've got a power to avoid having to do that, then the young lady here has the same power. I'll let her explain how impossible that is."

"Impossible?" asked Grant. "How is it impossible? I've heard of people getting the same power from the same event before."

Sophia rolled her eyes. "It's impossible," she said bluntly, "because I'm already a damn cape."

That definitely pulled him up short. Neither Dad nor I had much knowledge of powers in general, and this was the first time I'd ever heard the term 'trigger' in reference to getting them, but pop culture was pretty firm on the fact that capes couldn't just spontaneously manifest a new ability at the drop of a hat.

Well, someone like Eidolon could, but that was one of the things that made him so cool. Most capes were stuck with the powers that they started out with. Just getting a new one at random wasn't even in the ballpark of possibility. I got the impression Lieutenant Grant knew a lot more about this stuff than me and Dad, but it didn't seem like he had a good argument for that.

"Alright," he said after a moment. "Let's assume for the time being that you are in some way allowing your father and your friend to act as though they're alive when they're actually dead." He pointed at the gang member. "Who is that, and why's he on the floor?"

Dr Cartwright cleared his throat. "That … was by way of being an experiment. He's a member of the Merchants with no next of kin, who was involved in the murder of the young lady's father. He was killed in the attack, and I suggested that we determine the limits of her resurrection ability. It turns out that one, people come back with much the same personality and values that they died with … and two, she can withdraw her influence from them at any time, returning them to a state of normal death."

"Because that's not creepy at all," Sophia said, just loudly enough for the PRT soldiers to hear.

"Again, Sophia, not helping," I grumbled.

She smirked at me. "Hey, I just calls 'em as I sees 'em."

Lieutenant Grant cleared his throat, possibly to cover a chuckle. "Be that as it may, is there a time limit on how long someone has to be dead before it's impossible to wake them up again?"

I waved at Dad and Sophia, then at the mook on the floor. "Three people, in the last half hour, and they were my first attempt. Now you know as much as I do about it. The longer dead they are, the less I've got to work with."

"But you can fix 'em," Sophia piped up, poking at the scar in her side. "Maybe even if their brains have gone all mooshy. Bring 'em back up to scratch."

"And what if that's actually how I make a zombie? No memories, no personality." I shook my head. "I wouldn't want to do that to anyone."

"Merchants have personalities?" Sophia scratched her head and looked dubious. "You sure about that?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose again. "Sorry about that," I mumbled in the general direction of Lieutenant Grant. "It appears that dying and coming back did nothing to help the negative aspects of her personality."

"Think nothing of it." He sounded just a little amused, this time. "Do you have any idea of your range?"

"I was touching them to do it, but I don't know if that's the only way it works." I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. "Seriously, I only got my powers half an hour ago."

"Okay, that's something we can look into," he said. "But what I meant was, how far can one of your raised people get from you before the effect stops working?"

"Ah." My eyes widened. That was definitely a worry. "I don't know. And I'm not testing it out with Dad or Sophia, either."

"Ah, of course." Dr Cartwright snapped his fingers. "The possibility that hitting your limit has the same irrevocable effect as withdrawing your power. I totally understand."

"Well, I don't." Lieutenant Grant looked from Cartwright to me. "Would one of you like to explain?"

I grimaced. "When I'm in 'waking the dead' mode, I can kind of see into the heads of dead people. They've got sparks in them which I guess is the last living cells. I use those to wake them up. If I deliberately cut ties with someone I've brought back, there's no spark there. Nothing to grab."

"Well, that's new information," Dr Cartwright mused. "Doctor Frasier, was there anything you wanted to ask?"

"Uh, no, no," the other doctor said hastily, shaking her head. "I'm out of my depth already."

Lieutenant Grant half-raised his left hand. "Well, I have a couple more. What's 'waking the dead' mode and how is it different from what you're doing now? And if dead people have sparks, what do living people look like?"

I took a deep breath. "Don't freak. I'm going to change my appearance a little." I gave Grant a few moments to nod in acknowledgement, then I pushed myself back into shadow mode. I couldn't see the change in my own eyes, of course, but the minute changes in posture of the three PRT soldiers was clear enough to see. I suspected that their jaws may have dropped slightly, but the supernovas that glared at me through the shadows of their helmets made that impossible to determine.

I was beginning to get a handle on this sort of thing. From the feeling of renewed vigour in this mode, I got the impression that dropping into normal vision let me regain strength for doing stuff in the shadow mode.

"Hey, Danny, you feel any different?" asked Sophia, glancing at her hands.

"Now that you mention it, yes," Dad said. He cupped his chin with one hand, holding his elbow with the other. "When Taylor's eyes are glowing, I feel more … complete."

"Yeah, I think I'm more in touch with my powers this way," I confirmed. Concentrating, I tried to ask myself how far away my father and new best friend could go from me without risking a cutoff. Everything I'd ever heard about capes said that they had at least an idea of the capabilities of their powers, after all.

The answer came not in words, but via an impression. I knew, somehow, that my range for maintaining those I reanimated was at least citywide, maybe even covering a good chunk of the state. Glancing at Lieutenant Grant, I made the conscious decision not to pass on that information. Dr Cartwright didn't really need to know either. Letting them both assume it was shorter than that would hopefully reduce the chance of someone (specifically, the local PRT Director) reflexively deciding that I was a problem that needed to be dealt with.

"You wanted to know what it looks like?" I said to Lieutenant Grant instead, spreading my hands. "This is it."

"I see." In contrast to Dad and Sophia, his voice was hollow and echoing like the last time I'd been in this mode. "Are there any, less visible, changes?"

Oh yeah, he was definitely getting all the information he could, which was his job. Still, there was no harm in giving him something that anyone in the hospital could tell him if he asked. "When I came in," I said carefully, "I'd been severely beaten up. When these powers happened … triggered, whatever … everything healed up. I'm still missing a couple of teeth, but the ones that had been loose are better now, the broken bones aren't broken anymore, and the cuts and swelling and burns and stuff have all gone away. I'm not sure if it's a one-time thing or if doing this change lets me heal stuff like that. Also, I'm a bit stronger than I am in the other mode. Not lift-a-truck strong—at least, I don't think so—but definitely break-a-door-handle strong."

Grant nodded, as though he were taking mental notes. Given how professional he'd been to this point, he probably was. "It seems you've got a minor Brute rating then. Do you know if you're resistant to damage, in this mode?"

"Well, it's not as though I'm going to be experimenting," I said bluntly. "But I don't think so."

Somehow, I suspected not. My main source of danger, being anyone I reanimated who didn't like me, couldn't hit me. I wondered if that extended to weapons, and decided that I should have Sophia test this out at the earliest possible opportunity. Better to find out the hard way than the harder way.

"Understood." He nodded. "Would you be amenable to coming down to the PRT building so that we can perform more tests on your powers?"

"Nope." I was already saying the word before Sophia started performing vigorous horizontal scissoring motions with her hands. It seemed we were both on the same page as far as that was concerned. "You seem reasonable, but I have no idea who's in that building, and whether they might take it on themselves to decide that the walking dead people aren't actually humans with rights anymore, and why don't we dissect one or both to find out what makes them tick?" I stared at the glare where his brain was. "Hard pass, thanks."

Maybe he sighed a little; I couldn't tell. "Understood. Would you have any problem with supplying me with your name and other information?"

"Yeah, she would," Sophia said, stepping forward. "As of the moment she got powers, she was working under a secret identity. Her handing that name over to you automatically puts the PRT into the loop of people who are allowed to know it, and can use it against her."

"But you have to know we can find out in ten minutes, just by looking into hospital records." Lieutenant Grant didn't sound as though he could figure out where she was coming from.

Sophia sounded a lot more sure of herself. "Yeah, you can. But this way you aren't on the list of people who are automatically cleared to use that information. So if you do, we kick up a stink and you guys take a PR hit. And we both know who'll take the fall on that one."

"More to the point, the last thing the PRT wants is a local hero calling them out on bullshit like that." Dad spoke with authority on the subject, though I wanted to giggle when he used the word 'bullshit'. Still, it served to get the PRT lieutenant's attention, which was probably the main intention.

"So I'd appreciate it if you didn't do it," I finished. I didn't really need to stay in the shadow state, so I let myself lapse back to the normal world. "Doctor Cartwright?"

The doctor nodded, picking up on my meaning immediately. "The young lady's medical records are personal and private," he said sternly. "Unless you have an immediate and pressing need to obtain them that does not relate to her status as a parahuman then you will cease and desist with any such enquiries. Is that entirely clear?"

Lieutenant Grant nodded, a little reluctantly. "Totally," he said, though I privately bet he wanted to say absolutely anything else. Walking out with my name, face and total life history to date would've been a huge feather in his metaphorical cap.

Nobody moved or spoke for a moment, then I cleared my throat. "So, now that we've clarified the lack of a zombie outbreak, was there anything else I could help you with, Lieutenant Grant?"

He paused, no doubt looking for an excuse to hang around, but eventually had to shake his head. "No," he admitted. Turning, he nodded to the soldiers behind him, who backed up out of the room. About to step out through the doorway, he paused and turned. "Do you have a cape name I can use in my report?"

"Will you guys hold me to it if I decide to change it later?" I asked warily. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck with a stupid name chosen on the spur of the moment.

"Not really, no. All you'd really have to do in that case is let us know you're rebranding." His tone was encouraging.

"Okay, then. Uh …" I paused in thought.

There were any number of names I could use based around the concept of zombies or raising the (un)dead, and they were universally horrible if I wanted to present as a hero. Besides, despite the fact that Dad and Sophia had been killed, I didn't think of them as dead. Not really, anyway. Nobody who was dead could muster as much snark as Sophia could.

"Okay, how about Animator?" I asked. It sounded nice and harmless, but it described what I did pretty well exactly, if a little misleadingly.

It seemed Lieutenant Grant could see what I'd done, because he paused for a beat before he nodded. "Animator it is," he confirmed. "I'll pass that on." A moment later, he was gone.

I leaned back against a table, letting out a long sigh. "Okay, that could've gone a lot worse," I muttered.

"I agree," Dad said. "That young man panicking like he did had the potential for making serious problems for you."

"It still might," noted Dr Frasier. "Certainly, he left without making a fuss. But do you honestly think the PRT won't make an effort to get information about you and your powers? Being able to bring people back from the dead, even temporarily, is a game-changer. Can you imagine this power in the hands of a gang member? If one of his fellow gangers gets killed, he can put him straight back in the field, tougher than ever."

"Worse," Sophia said. "The more he went on, the more members would be reanimated. I still don't feel hungry or even tired, so a bunch of guys who don't need to sleep or eat, and who are minor Brutes at least part of the time? That's kind of scary."

"But I need to sleep," I objected. "What if you shut down when I'm out to it? That's basically the same as sleeping." I didn't voice my other fear; that when I went to sleep, my power would shut off and 'kill' Dad and Sophia all over again.

Leaving me all alone, with nobody in the world I could turn to.

"Somehow, I doubt it," mused Dad. "The protective capability that prevents us from harming you makes me wonder if it's there to protect you from someone you've animated while you're asleep." He heaved a sigh, which required him to take a breath before he did so. "In any case, you do need to get some sleep, so we should go home." He looked at Dr Cartwright. "How do we go about signing ourselves out? Sophia and myself are undoubtedly written down somewhere as deceased, and from the way Taylor was talking earlier, she was pretty beat-up too."

"Actually, my mom and brother were coming in to pick me up," Sophia reminded us. "But yeah, how do you walk out the front door when you're in the system as 'dead'?"

"I'll pull the files and mark them 'no further action; parahuman involvement'," Cartwright assured us. "Also, I will speak with young Mr Stafford and explain to him in words of one syllable or less that shouting about a zombie outbreak in the middle of a crowded hospital is perhaps the least career-enhancing choice he can make." Looking at the three of us, he cracked a slight smile. "I'll try to keep the incidence of pitchforks and torches to a minimum for you."

Sophia snorted with amusement. "Thanks, doc. You're okay in my book." She slugged him lightly on the shoulder as she headed for the door.

Dad paused though, and looked down at himself. "Uh … would it be possible to get cleaner clothing? I look like someone who's been on the wrong side of a car accident." He nodded toward Sophia and myself. "You two could probably do with a change-up as well. The Merchants didn't do you any favours."

"I can do that," Dr Frasier offered. "We have clothing donated for just this sort of thing, when people don't have something worth wearing in public."

"Bring them to my office," Dr Cartwright told her as she headed for the door. "We have no need to wait around in here any longer." He glanced down at the dead Merchant on the floor. "And while you're at it, send someone to put that man back on the drawer."

"We can do that," Dad said. "Sophia?"

"Sure," she said, and looked over at me. "A little boost there?"

"Oh, uh, right," I said hastily, pushing back into the shadow realm. I'd totally forgotten Dad's comments earlier about feeling more like himself when I was in this mode.

"Now, that's more like it." Dad leaned over the dead man and grabbed him under the shoulders, while Sophia got his feet. "One … two … three … go." It was kind of weird how there wasn't even a grunt of effort from either one; just a straight lift and sideways movement that put the guy back on his resting place. Dad arranged the corpse's arms, and that was it.

"Oh, yeah," crowed Sophia, bending her arm and clenching her fist; a moment later, I realised she was flexing her bicep. "That's what I'm talkin' about. I am so gonna kick ass like this."

"Really?" I asked. "That's what got us into this mess in the first place. How about we take this one step at a time until we know what we're doing?"

"Pfft." Sophia's voice was derisive. "'One step at a time' is for wimps. 'Jump in feet first' is my motto."

"Yes, I noticed," Dad said very dryly as we headed for the door. "That's the course of action that nearly got Taylor killed, and did get both of us killed. Maybe we should consider an alternate way of doing things? One that's less likely to get her hurt? Given that she's the only thing keeping us alive right now?"

Yeah, Dad, I thought as my heart thudded painfully in my chest. Just remind me of that, why don't you? No matter what happened from here on in, I had a responsibility to Dad and Sophia both; if I died, so did they.

"She doesn't have to come along on the ass-kicking," she retorted. "I can do it alone just fine. Especially now that I'm shitloads tougher and stronger than I was before. And hey, the only thing that'll take me down now is a brain shot. Anything else will just piss me off. Kind of like what Aegis can do."

"Hey, if you think I'm gonna sit at home and fix your injuries every time you come home with a knife in your spleen, you might wanna reconsider that," I said firmly. "That shit takes a lot out of me."

"I'll be fine," she insisted. "Hey, I wonder if you can make me regrow fingers or eyes or shit."

"I doubt it," I said. "If it's anything like the regeneration I did when I got the powers, it just heals stuff over. I've still got missing teeth from where those assholes were whaling on me."

We entered Dr Cartwright's office and he waved us to chairs. "Make yourselves comfortable," he said. "I'd offer you coffee, but I don't know who drinks it, or even which of you can drink it anymore."

"God dammit," muttered Sophia. "I knew there was a catch to this back-from-the-dead shit. Hey, doc, just make me a cup, will you? I just wanna see if I can drink it anyway."

"I'll have one too, please," I said, then caught Dad raising his eyebrows at me. "Hey, I know I prefer tea, but right now I need a pick-me-up. Besides, I want to see if I can fix the rest of the damage those bastards did to you, and I know that's gonna knock me around."

"That's as good a reason as any," agreed Cartwright as he busied himself at the coffee machine.

Focusing on my power again, I asked it what happened when I fell asleep. Once again, the answer wasn't in words, but I got the impression that so long as my brain was functional, Dad and Sophia wouldn't suffer any ill effects. Oh. Good. That was a huge weight off my shoulders.

My other problem was one that didn't seem to have an immediate solution. When my power was active, my eyes glowed white, or so people told me. When it was passive, they were engulfed in blackness. There seemed to be no middle ground, no off-switch. This would make maintaining a secret identity nigh-on impossible. I briefly considered the idea of getting a pair of huge wrap-around sunglasses, but shook my head as I thought more about it. In public, that might work; in class, not so much.

Unless … I dropped my vision back into the normal world. "Uh, Dad, what do you think about me pulling out of school?"

Both Dad and Dr Cartwright turned toward me. "I'm not in favour of the idea on general principles," Dad said, "but in this instance you may well have a workable excuse. What do you think, Doctor?"

"I think, at the very least, staying home for a week or so with the excuse of having been mugged, would not be beyond the bounds of probability," the doctor mused. "If you intend to go out as a hero, then that will also be an ideal time to start planning your costume as well as taking any training you might wish to get. First aid, at the very least."

"But after that, my secret will be out, won't it?" I couldn't imagine any other scenario. There was no way I could walk into school and not have people realise there was something strange going on with my eyes, and that was if I was in normal-vision mode. In shadow-world mode, I would stand out like a car with its high-beams on, and for much the same reason.

"Unless we can figure out how to make your eyes look normal, yes." Dad reached across and took my hand. "But we'll get through this together. I promise."

There was a knock on the office door at the same time as his desk phone rang. "Come in!" he called out, then picked up the phone. "Hello, Cartwright here."

The office door opened to reveal Dr Frasier, holding a stack of folded clothing. "I got these—oh, sorry."

Cartwright gestured for her to come in as he kept talking. "Who, sorry? A Mrs Hess? I don't—"

At that moment, Sophia waved to get his attention. She pointed at herself and mouthed, 'That's my mom.'

"—ah, of course, yes," he said. "Send her to my office. She'll have a young man with her? And a child? Yes, send them all up. Good. Thank you."

Slowly, he put the phone down again, then he closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out in a long, slow sigh. "Ah, thank you," he said to Dr Frasier as he opened his eyes again. "Just leave them on the desk. I'm going to be … busy, for awhile."

"Yes, Doctor Cartwright." Giving him a sympathetic look, she did as he instructed, then left his office, closing the door quietly behind her.

I could understand the sympathy. Also, what had inspired it. One of the very worst parts of being a doctor would have to be telling someone's loved ones that their father or mother or son or daughter would not be making it. Dr Cartwright's job would be ten times as hard; how to explain to Sophia's mother that her daughter had been killed, even though she was standing there right in front of us all? Worse, that Sophia's semblance of life was entirely dependent on me?

To distract myself, I started sorting through the clothes. The ones meant for Dad I figured out pretty quickly, and handed them to him. The others were pretty well much of a muchness, so I gave one set to Sophia and resigned myself to pulling in the belt thoughtfully provided in order to make the other pair of jeans stay up.

And then, there was a knock on the office door. Dr Cartwright looked around at each of us. I nodded, as did Dad. Sophia looked like she wanted to phase out through the wall, but after a long hesitation, she went over and opened the door instead.

"Hi, Mom."

Almost immediately, she was wrapped up in a ferocious hug by an older woman; even from where I was, I could see the resemblance. The teenage boy who stepped into the office around them—maybe eighteen or nineteen, from what I could see—was carrying a kid of one or two, who looked like she was just waking up from a nap, rubbing her fists in her eyes and yawning. She looked adorable.

"What's going on, Sophia?" her mother scolded. "We were worried sick! Why did you call from a hospital? Are you hurt?" She looked down at Sophia's blood-stained and scissor-cut top, and her blood-soaked pants. "Oh, my god! How bad is it?"

"Mom, chill." Sophia pushed the office door closed. "It's, uh … it's kind of unique. Yeah, unique is a good word for it. There's bad news and there's good news." She tried to guide her mother to a chair. "You'd, uh, you'd better sit down for this."

I stood up from my chair, and offered it to the older boy. "You too. Hi, my name's Taylor. Who's the little one?"

He stared at my face for long enough that I began to wonder if I had something on my nose, then I realised that my eyes were still strange. Then he took in Dad's obvious signs of battle, and silently sat down. In his lap, the infant started looking around more alertly. "I'm Terry," he murmured. "This is Annabel. What's going on?"

"Long, long story," I replied, just as quietly. "Brace yourself. Nothing's going to be the same again." I knew that was true for me as well.

"Unique? What do you mean, 'unique'?" Mrs Hess' voice rose in pitch, and she turned to Dr Cartwright. "Doctor! Who are these people? What does Sophia mean, unique? What's going on here?"

Dr Cartwright moved up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. "Ma'am, I really think you need to sit down. This will come as a shock to your system."

She brushed his hand aside. "That she's been going out as a superhero? I already knew that. I didn't like it, but I knew it." She glanced at me. "Is that girl your sidekick, or whatever they call them?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, I tried not to feel insulted. I wasn't a sidekick … was I? As Night Girl, I'd been … well, basically Sophia's apprentice … oh, crap. I was a sidekick, wasn't I?

"Mom, it's worse than that." Sophia took hold of her mother's arm and tried to ease her down into the seat. "Please, sit down."

I blinked, as did Terry. It seemed that neither of us was used to Sophia saying 'please'.

"Why?" Mrs Hess' voice rose even louder. "Will someone tell me what's going on here?"

I opened my mouth to say something, as did Dad. Dr Cartwright tried to say something soothing, but Sophia spoke over all of us. "Mom, I'm dead."

As I'd heard Dad say once when he thought I wasn't in earshot, that cut through the shit. Silence fell over the office, broken only by the sound of Sophia's mother sitting down in the chair. Her dark complexion gone several shades paler, she stared at Sophia. "What do you mean?" she whispered.

Sophia set her jaw, clearly intending to finish what she'd started. "I mean, I was shot tonight, and died shortly after getting to this hospital." Her voice was firm and sharp, brooking no interruptions. "I died. Just like Mr Hebert over there died, after being attacked in his home by a bunch of Merchants." She gestured toward Dad.

As if it were on a mechanical swivel, Mrs Hess' head turned toward him. He nodded to confirm Sophia's words. "This is all true."

Sophia's mother reached up and clutched her daughter's hand. "This can't be true," she insisted. "It can't."

"Mom, it happened." Sophia crouched down beside her. "I wish it hadn't happened, but it's true." She put her arm around her mother's shoulders.

"All right, who's the girl with the skull eyes?" the older woman asked, gesturing at me. I supposed the description wasn't totally unfair. "Is she dead too? Or is she supposed to be some sick version of Death, and she's just given me one more time to talk to you?" I could tell from the tone of her voice that she didn't want to listen, and was throwing out the question to deflect from what she'd heard already.

"No," I said quietly. "I'm the one who brought them back." I took a deep breath. "I've known Sophia for awhile—"

"I knew it!" shouted Mrs Hess. "You're the one who started my Sophia going out and beating up people, aren't you? You capes, so violent, setting my little girl such a bad example—"

"Mom, shut up!" Sophia shouted right back. As a tactic it worked, but I could tell it wouldn't hold for long. Sophia clearly did as well, because she kept talking, though she lowered her voice because little Annabel was starting to fuss. "She didn't set me a bad example! I set her one! I took her out with me without really training her, and she didn't even have powers then! She nearly got killed because of me! I had to rescue her, and that's when I got shot!" She pulled aside the mangled shirt to show her mother the bullet scar. "Right there."

"That's not new." Mrs Hess shook her head. "That's not tonight." She grimaced, looking at it. "When did that happen?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" snapped Sophia. She looked around, then spotted a pair of scissors on a side table. With two quick strides, she grabbed them up and opened them to get a better angle. I already knew what she was going to do, and so did Dad. Sophia's mother and brother were less ready for what happened next.

"Shit, Sophia, be careful!" blurted Terry. Then he stared, mouth open, as she shoved the metal blade right through her hand and out the other side. Her mother's mouth just fell open as she fought for words.

"I'm dead," Sophia repeated in a harsh tone. "You see blood? No? That's because my heart isn't beating. I'm not breathing." Slowly, she moved her hand around so that the impalement was fully visible. Then she pulled the scissors from her flesh. There was actually a thin sheen of blood on them now, but I figured that to be left over from when she'd been alive.

"Sophia?" Her mother's voice was almost a sob. "What did you just do?"

Sophia handed the scissors to Dr Cartwright. "I'm proving a point. Taylor?" Turning so that her mother and brother could see, she extended her hand to me.

I cleared my throat. "Okay, then. Don't be alarmed. I've actually done this before." Taking a deep breath, I pushed through into the shadow realm. Sophia and Dad came through with me, of course. Dr Cartwright and Sophia's family became skeletons with supernovas for heads. Reaching out, I took Sophia's hand, making sure that the fresh hole was visible to all concerned. Then I pushed energy into it, willing it to heal. It was actually less of an effort than the other one, probably because it was a more trivial injury. But it was no less impressive than before, not least because the injury had been deliberate.

When there was just a shiny scar on both sides of her hand, I let it go and transitioned back to the real world. Sophia showed her mother her hand. "See? I'm not alive. Taylor brought me and her dad back. I told you, it's a unique situation."

Grabbing her hand, Mrs Hess studied the scar suspiciously. "So she can heal people …?"

"No," I said patiently. "I can bring back people who have died, and I can repair their injuries. That's my power. I'm sorry. I can let her walk around, but I can't make her alive again. That's on me." Especially since I'm the one who got them both killed. That guilt was going to last me for the rest of my life.

Silence fell over the office, apart from the burblings of the kid. Once Terry got her settled, he looked up at me, his face drawn. "Jesus," he muttered.

I flinched violently. "Please don't make this a religious thing."

"No, no," he said hastily. "I was just saying it. It's a lot to take in. My sister's a—"

"If you say the 'Z' word, I will kick your ass," Sophia threatened.

"I was going to say 'superhero'," he snarked back at her. "But how does this work? How do we even get past this? Where do we go from here?"

I sighed. "And those are just some of the questions I'm dealing with right now."


End of Part Eight

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Nine: Determinations

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
[A/N 2: The PHO segment was created using @Conceptualist's PHO generator.]
[A/N 3: It's been awhile since I posted to this one, so here's a rundown on her power.]

Spoiler: Taylor's Power

Taylor has a Striker/Breaker power that manifests in two modes. Both modes cause outward physical alterations to her appearance.

The first mode is what she calls the 'shadow realm'. In this mode, her eyesockets are filled with a bright white glow. To her, the world is full of darkness. People appear as animated skeletons with supernovas for brains. Deceased people show the lights slowly going out. Objects are visible to her, but only via an analogue to X-ray vision (she can actually see through walls). People's voices are audible, but distant and with the suggestion of echoes.

In addition, this is the mode where she can raise people, and heal injuries in the ones she's raised (either way, this requires physical contact). Either act drains her of energy, especially if they were dead awhile or the injuries were comprehensive. Those people she has raised are faster and stronger while she's in this mode (she's actively feeding them energy). Their emotions are somewhat flattened, though they're fully aware of what's going on. She's also stronger, and has flattened emotions (and can heal her own injuries) in this mode.

People she has raised are the exception to her sight and hearing problems in this mode. She can see and hear them perfectly normally. They are also still of the same mindset as when they died. She cannot control the people she raises, but they are unable to perform any deliberate act that might harm her. If she makes the conscious decision to cut them off from her power, they cease to be animated and their brain loses all lights (does not require physical contact). Which means she can't reanimate them.

In addition, people she has raised have no heartbeat, don't need to breathe and slowly lose body temperature.

Capes she has raised can use their powers normally when she is in either mode.

The second mode is the 'real world' mode. In this one, her eyesockets are full of darkness, but she can see normally. She can't use her powers actively, and people she has raised are of normal strength and speed. Their emotions are less flattened in this mode as well. The main advantages of this mode are that she can regain energy just by resting, and she can see properly.

If she stays in the shadow realm mode for too long and uses up too much energy, she starts involuntarily flickering back to the real world mode until she transitions back deliberately.

Deputy Director Renick

"… and that was it for the interview. I'll write up my report in full once I get back to base."

"Understood," Renick replied. "Good work, Lieutenant. Now for your personal impressions. Do you consider that the girl or the people she reanimated might be a danger to the city?"

"No, I didn't get that vibe, sir. The man was forthright and calm, the other girl she'd animated was a little confrontational and snarky—that is, typical teenager—and the girl herself seemed tired and just over the whole thing. They spoke quite candidly about the lack of typical horror-movie zombie symptoms. I could walk past any one of them on the street and not see anything amiss. Apart from the eyes, of course."

"Yes. The eyes." Renick sighed. That's going to play hell with her secret identity if she can't turn that effect off. "You say that sunglasses won't help?"

"The effect covers the whole eyesocket in either situation and the light is rather bright, sir. One of our helmets might do it, but anything less would have as much effect as putting a domino mask on a Case Fifty-Three."

"Understood." The poor kid was doomed to being an open cape, and there was only one thing he could really do about it. "Do you think she might be amenable to joining the Wards?" Every warm body helped, after all.

Tellingly, Grant hesitated. "I … don't know, sir. It's possible, I guess. We can give her cover that nobody else can, and the very last thing we want is a power like that in one of the gangs. I just didn't want to make the attempt and push her away by saying the wrong thing. Also, can a parent actually make legal decisions about their child when they're technically deceased?"

Renick chuckled darkly. "That, Lieutenant, is a question I think the legal department is going to be pulling their hair out over." And they weren't going to be the only ones. Image is going to pitch a pink fit when they find out about her. A girl who raises not-zombies from the recently deceased. How do you even spin something like that?

That they'd try, he had no doubt. The Protectorate and Wards had borne witness to many a success story by the Image department, so they'd probably come in with full confidence that they had it in the bag. With the unique challenge presented by this girl's powers, even if she were willing to give them a chance, he wasn't at all certain of their success.

It would probably be highly entertaining while it lasted, though.

He spoke a little more with Lieutenant Grant, then ended the call. With another sigh, he set about typing up a preçis of the call for Emily when she arrived in the morning. How she was going to react to this, he wasn't sure. He was just glad that it wasn't going to be his problem.

<><>​

Taylor

"Let me see that again," Terry said, reaching for Sophia's hand.

"Get off!" she retorted, snatching it away. "Just because I stuck scissors through it doesn't mean you can wipe your grubby paws all over it."

"I just wanted to see where it was healed." His voice was plaintive.

"Right here. See?" Sophia held her hand out, palm forward. She held the pose for about ten seconds, then turned her hand around so he was looking at the back. Then, because it was Sophia, she gave him the finger. "Or would you like me to repeat myself?"

"Sophia." Mrs Hess didn't raise her voice, but Sophia paused in the act of bringing up her other hand to give her brother a double-barreled bird. "Enough."

"But Mo-om, he's treating me like a circus freak," Sophia protested. "I'm just dead, not a member of the Slaughterhouse Nine or something."

Mrs Hess flinched. "Don't say that." Her voice was quiet and full of pain. "Please don't say that."

"Shit." Sophia dropped her gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry."

It was as if she hadn't spoken. "I've been scared this day would come," her mother said softly. "From the first time I caught you with that costume. I was most worried of a police officer knocking on the door to give me the bad news. Second most of being called to the hospital to see you before you passed."

I tried to think of a way to comfort her, but between the lateness of the hour and my own overwhelming guilt, I couldn't come up with anything.

"Well, I haven't passed," Sophia said. Her mother and I both gave her a look. She had the grace to look abashed, then rallied again. "I just took a time-out on life for a bit, and now I'm back. I can even go home whenever you're ready." She flicked a glance at me that I had no trouble interpreting. I can, can't I?

"Well, yeah," I said as reassuringly as I could. "Just don't make any plans to leave the state, okay?"

"Right." She rolled her eyes. "Up until you said that, I was fine with not going anywhere. Now? I've got this urge to go visit LA or someplace … kidding. I kid."

"You think you're being funny," I said. "But you're really not."

"Hey, I leave the deep an' sophisticated humour to the nerds," she told me airily. "I'll handle the important stuff in life, like kicking ass and maybe taking names." Accepting the cup of coffee Doctor Cartwright handed her, she took a sip.

"Once again, that's what got us into all this." I shook my head. "Think you could maybe tone it down for a bit until we figure where we're at?"

"That's probably a wise idea," Dr Cartwright said from where he'd been sitting silently behind his desk all this time. "I know little to nothing about powers and how they work, but while you may now be inhumanly resistant to being shot or stabbed, I strongly suspect that Taylor is not. Also, while the part of her powers that makes her eyes glow also makes you stronger and faster, she cannot maintain it for hours on end."

"I'd noticed that myself," Dad agreed. "So while it's best for Taylor if she stays home safe and sound …"

"… it's best for Sophia if I go out and about with her and give her a boost when and if she needs it," I finished.

"And I'll be damned if I ever let you go out alone at night like that again," Dad added vehemently. "Also, body armour. You're going to be wearing body armour."

Wow, damn. This was the most protective Dad had sounded since … well, since forever. And somehow I knew it wasn't because if I died, he died. It was because I was his daughter and he was my father.

"I'm down with that," announced Sophia. "Hey, this coffee isn't bad."

"So, no ill effects from caffeine …" murmured Doctor Cartwright. "Do you feel better? Stronger? Faster?"

Sophia snorted. "Nah, that's only when Taylor does her glowing-eyes thing. Any other time? Nope, just normal old me."

I stifled a yawn. "How about we talk about this in the morning? I'm beat. Because, you know, I've been beaten."

"That is also a wise idea." Doctor Cartwright nodded approvingly. "Important decisions should not be made when tired or hungry."

"Yeah, well, I'll be heading home with my folks," Sophia said. She came over and put her hand on my shoulder. "See you tomorrow?"

"Absolutely," I said, yawning again, right in the middle of the word. "Dad, let's go home."

"Sure." He went over and shook Doctor Cartwright's hand. "And thanks for everything. I know I appreciate it."

"You're entirely welcome." Cartwright smiled. "And if anything else unusual crops up with your, uh, condition …"

Dad nodded. "You'll be the first to know. Come on, Taylor. Let's go."

I paused as something occurred to me. "Uh … how? The car's not here, and I doubt either of us has money for a cab."

"Mom can drop you off." Sophia looked at her mother. "Right?"

Mrs Hess sighed. "Okay, why not. It'll be cramped, though."

"Trust me," I said feelingly, "it's better than walking."

"I appreciate it," Dad told her. "When I get hold of my wallet, I'll give you gas money."

"No, never mind," she said, shaking her head. "I have a feeling we're going to be getting to know each other a lot better from now on anyway."

I met Sophia's eyes and we both shrugged.

It definitely sounded like a plan.

<><>​

Rodney

Okay, it's a plan, but can I pull it off?

He didn't know for a fact, but there was only one way to find out. He was the only one who knew and accepted the Truth about what was going on. Someone had to get the word out.

Irritatingly enough, Simon didn't seem to be bored enough to stop paying attention to him. He hadn't ever really paid much attention to the burly security guard before now, but the guy was definitely paying attention to him. Every time he swiped the mop over a new section of floor, Simon would get up from where he was sitting and move a few more yards down. His handcuffs, keys and torch thumped and jingled against the plastic chairs, but the guy didn't seem to care.

Rodney got all the way to the end of the corridor before he put his plan into action. Not to run for it; he'd seen Simon in action and he knew the big guy was a lot fitter than him. I have to out-think him.

So he cleaned the last section then turned to Simon, who was waiting by the stairwell door. "Hey, dude, before I start the next floor, could I hit the restroom? I need to take a wicked dump."

He'd tried to make his tone as casual as possible, but Simon still frowned at him. Then, slowly, the big man nodded. "Sure. I'll be right outside."

"Yeah, no problem." Rodney led the way to the nearest men's room. He and Simon both knew damn well there would be no sneaking out through the six-inch-square air ducting, or the eight-inch-high sealed window. The only way in and out would be via the door, and that was where Simon would be.

Still pretending to be casual, Rodney strolled in and went to the far end cubicle. He took care to lock himself in, then reached into the pocket of his scrubs and took out his phone. Feeling like a character in an old spy thriller, he held down the power button to wake it up. Just before the music tone sounded that would've betrayed what he was doing, he shoved the device under his armpit and started making grunting noises for extra verisimilitude.

"You okay in there?" called Simon.

"Yeah, just a big one!" Rodney called back.

"I do not want to know!"

Smirking, Rodney let the phone finish booting up, then opened a tab to PHO. Hastily, knowing his time was limited, he started to type.

<><>​

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■​

♦Topic: ZOMBIES IN BROCKTON BAY!
In: Boards ► Brockton Bay ► Non-Cape


RaffieStaffie (Original Poster) (Temp-banned)
Posted on August 28, 2009:

On mobile, so pls forgive any format crap.
Okay, guys, this is absolutely real. This isn't some Void Cowboy conspiracy stuff, its real as real. I saw it.
So i work in Brockton General and this chick came in, she'd been pretty beat up and stuff but her friend was worse, shed been shot. And some othe dude came in I think he was her dad or smth? I dunno.
Anyway, the shot girl and the dude are both in a rael bad way and they pass. It's sad but it happens. But this chick goes mental. tears the door off theroom shes in and frces herway into the morge and when i come in shes raised them both as zombies and she raised another one like a ganger or smth and her face is like a skull and im tryin to rase the alarm but the hospitals trying to cover it up so nobody nppanics but youve got to spread the word. zombies. Im serios zombies in bb. i got to


(Showing Page 3 of 3)


► Glory Girl (Verified Cape) (Cape Daughter) (New Wave)
Replied on August 28, 2009:

What did I just read?


► BrickFrog (Veteran Member)
Replied on August 28, 2009:

I'm not entirely certain.
Though that "I got to" cut off at the end is kinda ominous.


► LaserDream (Verified Cape) (Cape Daughter) (New Wave)
Replied on August 28, 2009:

Got to get back on their meds, maybe?
I mean, seriously? Zombies?


► 2ndAmendGuy
Replied on August 28, 2009:

Okay, I knew this day was coming.
Can capes help against a zombie apocalypse?
Like hell they can. All you'd get out of that would be zombie capes.
Time for a dose of good old Samuel Colt equalizer.
Lock and load, friends.
Lock and load.


End of Page. 1, 2, 3

<><>

Doctor James Cartwright

James closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He did what?" With any luck, the answer would be different the second time around.

Simon, standing in front of the desk with his hand securely wrapped around Rodney's shoulder, cleared his throat with what sounded like embarrassment. "He made an excuse to go to the restroom and posted on the Parahumans Online Boards. I got suspicious when … well, when I couldn't smell anything. So I opened the door, and he had his phone in his hands."

"He didn't even knock!" Rodney protested. "He just unlocked the door! I could've been doing anything! And he took my phone, too!"

"How bad is it?" asked James, ignoring the young man.

"Could be better, could be worse." Simon waggled his hand from side to side. "He didn't name names, and most of the people who've responded so far seem to think it's a joke or a hoax. Of course, there are a few who are … problematic."

"Can you go on yourself and post the real story?" asked James hopefully. "Or delete his post?"

"I can't delete his original post without access to his account, and he shut his phone down before I managed to get it away from him." Simon glared at Rodney, who just managed to look stubborn. "But I can do the other thing."

"Do it," James ordered. "The last thing we want is a panic about zombies. That poor girl has been through enough already."

"Okay." Simon took out his own phone and turned it on, then he began to tap on it.

James kept an eye on Rodney, wondering what he was going to do with the young man. His heart was clearly in the right place, but his sense of judgement was just as clearly lacking. It looks like the disciplinary review board after all. James had been hoping to avoid that.

"Huh." Simon looked up from his phone. "Looks like they've reined in the crazy. I think we're in the clear."

"Really?" James leaned forward. "Let me see."

Obligingly, Simon held the phone toward him.

<><>

► Agent42 (Verified PRT Agent) (Veteran Member)
Replied on August 28, 2009:

We got a call from BB General earlier tonight. Four officers attended. The report states that although there was a trigger event involved amid unusual circumstances (details withheld to protect identities) there are zero, I say again ZERO zombies running around Brockton Bay.
So cease panicking, folks.
Save your panic for the actual threats out and about.
Good night and stay safe.


► ChaosDancer (Moderator) (Veteran Member)
Replied on August 28, 2009:

(Sigh) I go for coffee and this happens.
RaffieStaffie, have a temp ban.
Everyone else, calm your frontal lobes.
I am hereby locking this thread.

<><>​

Simon

"Well, that's good … isn't it?" Doc Cartwright looked at Simon for confirmation.

"Yeah, it's about the best result we could hope for," the security guard agreed. "The PRT rarely weighs in on stuff like this, so people tend to believe them. And with the thread closed and Stafford here temp banned, the fuss should die away." He gave Rodney an unfriendly look. "What do I do with him?" With any luck, Cartwright's orders would involve the toe of Simon's boot and a ballistic arc across the parking lot.

From the look on the surgeon's face, he was having much the same thoughts, but then he sighed and shook his head. "Leave him to me. I'm going to need to have a long talk with him about whether he thinks he's really suited to this job."

"Sure thing." Simon stepped away from the desk, leaving Rodney standing there. "He's all yours."

As the door closed behind him, he shook his head. Better him than me.

<><>​

The Next Day
Taylor

I stretched and yawned myself awake, then swung my legs over the side of the bed just as memories hit me from the night before. "Shit!" I gasped. "Dad!" For all that I'd felt sure he would be okay when I fell asleep, I needed to know.

It took a moment to remember that I could shift into the shadow realm. When I did, everything was dark except for the vague shadows of matter in the air … and I could see through the walls. In the hospital, there had been far too many people around to fix on any one of them, but now I was looking for one in particular.

And there he was. If I was reading the house correctly—it was weird as fuck to be able to see through walls and floors like the place was a transparent 3D model—he was just coming in through the front door, carrying some objects that looked a lot denser than the walls. I couldn't see details from where I was, but I suspected they were a hammer and a bunch of nails.

"Are you up, Taylor?" he called out. "I can feel your boost."

Hastily, I opened the door and leaned out. "Yeah, I just woke up!" I yelled back. "How are you feeling?"

He started up the stairs; it was weird watching him climb the risers while at the same time hearing his footsteps. When he got to the top of the stairs and turned the corner, I came out of the bedroom and went to meet him.

As far as I could tell, he looked the same as he had last night. I couldn't see his brain-lights, but he was neither shambling nor slurring. All the same, I put my hand on his arm and pushed energy into him. Only a little went through, not even enough to make me light-headed, and I dropped back into the real world.

"Well, I was feeling fine even before you did that," he said with a chuckle. "But thank you anyway. I think I might've overdone the make-work jobs I set myself last night to get around boredom."

I frowned. "What exactly did you do?"

He took a deep breath, then stretched. Old habits died hard, it seemed. "Well, after I fixed the door where the Merchants kicked it in, I lay awake for an hour then I got up and washed the dishes, swept and mopped the floors, cleaned out the basement, scrubbed that stubborn stain out of the downstairs bathroom cubicle, then went and got some lumber and replaced that rotten step."

"Wow." I blinked, impressed. "So … if you keep on not being able to sleep, what are you going to do tomorrow night to keep yourself active?"

He sighed. "I'm thinking I can finally justify getting cable at last. Spend my time watching documentaries or other educational shows. Or maybe I'll buy a typewriter and start writing a novel or something. There's a lot of stories my dad told me about Brockton Bay, back before powers were a thing, that people might like to read about."

I grinned at him. "If I bought a copy, would you sign it?"

"Sign it? I'd dedicate it to you." He snorted and shook his head. "I've heard the old saying about 'when a door closes, a window opens' but this is patently ridiculous. I know I should be mad about being attacked in my own home, and I am, but to be honest? I've always thought there weren't enough hours in the day, and now there are."

And there was the guilt again. "Dad, I'm so, so sorry that I got you into all this. If I hadn't been carrying something with my name on it—"

He wrapped me up in a hug. "Taylor. It's not your fault. You've been under a huge amount of stress, and Sophia came along at just the wrong time."

Ugh, dammit. I didn't want him blaming Sophia. "Not really her fault, either. It's a fact that people who know how to do something automatically think other people can do it too. I could've said no to going out as her sidekick."

"And yet, you did not." Dad released me from the hug and put his hands on my shoulders. "What I said last night about wearing body armour still goes, young lady. I am not going to let you go out as a costumed vigilante without at least a modicum of protection."

Remembering what had happened to Sophia brought the truth of his words home to me. "Okay, Dad. Any idea where I can get some from?"

"Now that, I'm not sure about." He rubbed his chin. "I could ask around the Dockworkers. Some of them have pasts I've been careful not to dig too deeply into. Pretty sure a few of them have worked for villains before now. If anyone would know how to get body armour in your size, they would."

He went downstairs to make breakfast while I went to take a shower. Checking my face in the mirror revealed that the broken-and-fixed nose still had a bump in the bridge, and the other marks from the beating and torture were also there. It appeared that my power had repaired the damage without resetting things, which I supposed I'd have to deal with. It wasn't like my looks had been anything to write home about before all this.

Shower done, I had just emerged from my room with a towel wrapped around my hair when I heard a brisk knock on the door. Just on a hunch, I went into the shadow realm and saw (through two walls and the floor) Sophia standing on the front porch with two living people behind her. One of the two was carrying a much smaller third person. Her mother, brother and sister. Of course. As I watched, Sophia raised her hand and waved.

"I got it!" I called out, and went back to the real world, then trotted down the stairs. When I opened the door, Sophia was just raising her hand to knock again. "Hey," I said, slightly out of breath. "When you said you'd come over, I didn't realise it would be this early."

"Hey, you," she returned with a smirk, reaching out to punch me lightly on the shoulder. Her knuckles didn't quite make contact, and the smirk dimmed somewhat. Making the clear decision to pretend that hadn't just happened, she forged on. "Well, I didn't know how absolutely goddamn boring it would be, stuck in the house when you can't sleep. So as soon as I felt your boost, I knew you were up."

"And then she bitched and whined to Mom until we brought her over," Terry put in from behind her. "As far as I'm concerned, you can keep her."

"Terence Luther Hess," his mother admonished him. "That's not a nice thing to say, even if it is a joke."

"Who says it was a joke?" He rolled his eyes. "The only thing worse than a bratty teenage little sister is a bratty teenage little sister who can't sleep."

"Well, I was just talking with Taylor about getting cable installed," Dad said from behind me. "You're more than welcome to come over some nights and we could watch documentaries."

Sophia wrinkled her nose. "Documentaries? Really? Can't we watch something more interesting?"

Even when I wasn't looking, I could hear Dad's shrug. "My cable, my rules."

"Ugh, fine." Sophia rolled her eyes. "I'll watch the boring documentaries. They might have something cool."

"I'm glad you approve," Dad said dryly. "Anyway, we're being rude, here. Would you all like to come in?"

With that hint, I stepped aside. Sophia came in first, looking around with interest. Terry let his mother precede him, then he followed her while carrying his baby sister.

Dad led the way into the living room and waved the Hesses to the sofa. "We were just making breakfast. Would you like some coffee or tea?"

"No, we can't stay long," Mrs Hess said. "Sophia insisted on coming over, but if this is an awkward time, she can come back later."

"Mom!" protested Sophia. "What the heck? How about I get to make my own decisions?"

"Because you've done so very well with those in the last few months," Terry snarked at her. I decided I liked him, and not just because he was big and buff.

"Hey, I don't see you going out there and keeping the streets safe!" she fired back at him.

"As I said, you've done such a great job of it." His deadpan delivery was perfect, not even needing to point out me and Dad.

"Enough." Mrs Hess didn't shout, but the tone of her voice brought both Sophia and Terry up short. "I didn't bring you here so you could argue in someone else's home. Terry, leave your sister alone. Sophia, you don't want to wear out your welcome here."

"Well duh, that's not gonna happen," Sophia declared boldly. "I'm the superhero, here."

Dad raised his eyebrows. "What was that about not making decisions for people, again?"

"What?" she stared at him, a look of betrayal in her eyes. "But I—but you—"

I laughed and put my hand on her shoulder, a moment before Dad's grin broke through. "Chillax, Soph. Dad's just yanking your chain. I'm good with you coming over. We both are."

She tried to glare at us, but her heart clearly wasn't in it. "You assholes. You really had me going for a minute there."

"Just goes to show," I said with a smirk of my own. "Making unfounded assumptions will bite you in the ass at the worst possible time."

Although I hadn't meant the words to cut, Sophia winced anyway. It was basically her assumptions and decisions that had led to this whole situation, and we both knew it. Yes, my own choices had contributed, but she'd been the driving force. And now she and Dad were both dead because of it. In a staggering turn of irony, she was being forced to face the consequences of her actions after they had killed her, whereas for most people death was the end of their problems.

Of course, my life was not without its own complications. My new best friend was dead and my father was dead. The fact that they were walking and talking, and would be for the foreseeable future, was only a detail. They were still dead, and the responsibility for their deaths—and their lives, or the simulacra of life that they now possessed—was now at least partly mine. Even with them at my side, I was alone in a way few people were.

"Yeah," Sophia said heavily. "I got that, thanks."

I took a deep breath and knelt beside the sofa, sliding my arm around her shoulders. "Hey," I said. "We're in this together." Pushing myself into the shadow realm, I directed healing energy into her. It took more of a jolt than I'd needed for Dad, and I gave her a quizzical look. "What've you been doing to yourself?"

"Hah! Check it out," she crowed, and pulled up the leg of her sweatpants. "Yes! It worked!"

"Worked? What worked?" Dropping back into the real world, I leaned over to see what she was doing. Down the length of her calf was tattooed the word 'BADASS', dark blue ink standing out against the dark brown of her skin. I was pretty sure she hadn't had a tattoo like that before … "Wait. Did you do that? Last night?"

Terry sighed. "At about one AM. Ruined one of our pens to do it. Took her forever to get it done."

"Well, if you'd helped me do it, it would've taken a lot less time," she sniped back at him.

"And once Mom found out that I'd helped, I'd be—" He cut himself off, probably just before saying the word dead. "Grounded for life," he substituted.

"What makes you think you're not?" Mrs Hess asked rhetorically.

"Wait, what?" he said. "How is that fair?"

She gave him a hard look. "You're the oldest. You're supposed to be more responsible than that."

"She's the superhero!"

"And you're still the oldest." Her tone said that the subject was closed.

"Well, that sucks," he muttered.

Mrs Hess gave her elder daughter a hard look. "You're lucky you're not grounded right alongside him."

We all knew why she wasn't, and why nobody was talking about it. Being dead was kind of the ultimate 'what more can you do to me' situations. "So, did it hurt?" I asked, curious despite myself. It seemed that she and Dad were more or less impervious to pain from being punched and kicked, but actual stabbing wounds were another thing altogether. There had been the 'scissors through the hand' trick but Sophia was a bit of an edgelord, so she could've held it together for that.

"Nope. No more than it hurts when you write on yourself," she said airily, stretching out her leg and admiring the tattoo. The lettering wasn't perfect, but I'd seen pictures of prison tattoos that were more clumsily done. "Would've sucked if it just pushed all the ink out again, though."

"Well, don't do it too often," I chided her. "Even doing that takes it out of me when I heal you. I'd prefer to only have to fix the unavoidable stuff."

"Yeah, okay, sorry." She slapped her thighs and rubbed her hands together briskly. "So, Mr Hebert. How do you feel about giving Taylor and me a lift to the Lord Street Market?"

Dad and I glanced at each other. This sudden sharp left turn in the topic had me moderately puzzled, and I was pretty sure he was wondering what she had in mind as well. "It's doable," he replied cautiously. "But if you wanted to go to the Market, why didn't you just have your mother drop you off there instead?"

"Because I need both of you there as well." She looked at me, then at Dad. "What, don't you get it yet? Costumes. Well okay, not the high end stuff, but clothing that's got some sort of theme and you can use it to hide your identity."

"Uh, I didn't think I was going to go out—" I began, just as Dad started talking as well. I stopped and waved for him to keep going.

"Thanks." He gave Sophia a stern look. "Taylor will have enough trouble hiding the fact that she's a parahuman before she even gets to the Market. And while she's stronger when she's in boost mode, she can't keep that up indefinitely, and she's still vulnerable to stuff that you and I can just shrug off. I do not want her going out until she's as protected as we can make her, and that requires body armour. Which I still haven't had a chance to source. But right now, with her eyes the way they are? Everyone and his dog will know she's a parahuman on sight. We don't need that sort of complication."

"So she wears sunglasses," Sophia said with a throwaway gesture. "Just, you know, don't walk like you're trying to hide something, because that makes everyone look at you. Put on a rockin' pair of shades and walk like you own the pavement, and people just get out of your way."

"And if I had to go into the shadow realm?" I couldn't think of a good reason why I would, but I had to ask the question anyway. "From how bright you guys described my eyes are, not even mirror shades would cut it."

"Uh …" Sophia stalled, stuck. It looked like she hadn't anticipated all possible questions.

"Wear a scarf," Terry said unexpectedly. "If something happens so you have to do that, pull it up over your eyes. You can see right through it, yeah?"

Well, it seemed someone had been paying attention. Also, it was a solution. Not a perfect solution, but we'd left 'perfect' behind long ago and were dealing with 'maybe good enough'. And he was right; if I had to go into the shadow realm, it would be because shit was going sideways and Dad and Sophia needed the boost.

"Yeah," I agreed, albeit reluctantly. I wasn't in love with the idea of using a scarf over my face as a mask, but it could be a lot worse. "But what are the chances of something going wrong at the Market? Who'd even attack that place, anyway?"

Sophia drew a deep breath. "Merchants, ABB, Empire Eighty-Eight, Uber and Leet, and basically anyone who thinks they've got a reason. The Enforcers are good for dealing with shoplifters and anyone who wants to start a protection racket, but anyone who's got actual powers can walk all over them. So we don't go there expecting trouble, but we make sure we can deal with it if it happens. Okay?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad's fist clench at the mention of the Merchants, which didn't surprise me. I had a few scores to settle with those creeps, myself. We all did. I found myself not so much hoping they'd show up while we were at the Market, but being totally okay with the idea if they did.

Slowly, Dad nodded. "Okay, you've convinced me. Taylor and I need clothing that will pass for a costume until we can get something better, and the Market is as good a place as any to get that." He turned to Mrs Hess. "If that's alright with you, that is."

For what seemed like about an hour, but couldn't have been more than twenty seconds, Sophia's mother considered her answer. Eventually, she sighed and nodded. "Just don't let her run too far out of control," she advised Dad. "You've already seen how she'll push boundaries."

"Hey, I do not run out of control!" protested Sophia. "Or push boundaries!"

Dad, Terry, myself and her mother all gave her a very dry look. "Yes," we said at once. "You do."

Startled at the fact that we'd all said the same thing at the same time, I giggled as Sophia gave us each a phenomenally dirty look. "You all suck," she mumbled.

Ignoring her bad temper, Dad nodded to Mrs Hess. "I'll drop her off at your house when we're finished," he assured her.

"That sounds okay." She gave him a smile. "I'm not exactly onboard with what's already happened, but I'm glad I have a fellow responsible adult to help keep an eye on her now."

I was about to protest; something along the lines of hey, I'm pretty responsible. Then I remembered how we'd gotten to where we were. Oh. Right.

"Well, then." I dusted my hands off and stood up. "Let's go see what the Market has to offer."

Sophia grinned and got up as well. "Let's do this."


End of Part Nine

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Ten: New Kid on the Block

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



I opted to sit in the back seat with Sophia, because that way we could chat on the way to the Market without me getting a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder all the time. She seemed about the same as she had been the previous day; that is, cheerfully snarky. Despite the previous references to her being dead, it didn't seem to be weighing on her mind. She was very much an in-the-moment sort of person, which I supposed would be a help in that situation.

"Oh, hey," she said when we were halfway to the Market, "do you remember where we stashed my gear, my crossbows and stuff? Maybe we should go grab it before someone else does."

"I think so, too." I frowned, trying to recall precisely which dumpster we'd shoved the rolled-up cape containing Sophia's superhero equipment behind. Letting her weapons (as well as the utility belt, but that was less important) fall into the hands of someone who might use them on innocents was a Bad Idea, in capitals even. "Dad, can we detour?"

"We can do that," he agreed. "Where did you leave it, exactly?"

"I'm trying to think." I leaned back in my seat and scrubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes. A memory swam into focus, and I sat forward again. "Davison Street. Or Davidson. I had to check the street sign. That's where we were when I called the ambulance."

"I know Davison," Dad said immediately. "That's a not a great part of town."

"I can kind of remember where I rescued you from," Sophia ventured. "But after that it's kind of a blur, especially toward the end."

I nodded. "Okay. If we maybe go along Davison until I recognise the street corner, then you point Dad toward where they were holding me, I'll try to see if I can recognise any landmarks."

"We can certainly give that a shot," Dad said from the front seat. "Davison's this way." He slowed at the next intersection and turned right. "I'll let you know when we're on it. But if we spot one of the guys who kicked in the door last night, I can't promise not to get out and even the score a little."

"I'll be right there with you, Mr. H," Sophia promised. "I still think I should've ended the lot of them last night. And if I'd known what their buddies were up to, I would've."

Dad nodded. "I can't actually argue with that."

I wanted to object to the talk of violence, but the truth was that I'd been tortured and they'd been murdered by these people. The Merchants had no redeeming qualities whatsoever, and they hurt people as a matter of course during their day-to-day activities. Sure, I'd maybe been a little out of line when I chased that one guy with a baseball bat, but burning my eye with a cigarette and going to Dad's house specifically to kill him basically beat up 'out of line' and stole its lunch money.

We rode for awhile in silence, until Dad announced we were on Davison Street. I leaned up close to the window as we rolled through one dingy intersection after the other, trying to spot where the ambulance had picked us up. As my eyes flicked from street signs to buildings to sidewalks, despite my earnest need to find the right place, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering.

The more I thought about it, the more Sophia's attitude made sense. I was through being Miss Nice Girl. If the Merchants wanted to sell drugs to kids, torture teenage girls for the fun of it and murder the families of vigilantes, then fuck 'em. What they were going to face from here on in was going to be a lot worse than a scared teenager with a baseball bat.

"Hey," I said hurriedly, tamping down thoughts of bloody revenge as a vaguely familiar sight caught my eye. "I think this is it."

Dad turned the corner and stopped the car, but he insisted on half-stepping out and surveying the area before letting me get out. There was nobody around that we could see, but that meant nothing. Sophia stepped up onto the hood and crouched there, watchful and silent.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" asked Dad.

"Yeah." I checked for traffic, of which there was none, and crossed the narrow street with Dad close behind. If any shit at all went down, I was poised to go into the shadow realm, powering Dad and Sophia up to fight our way out of this. Nothing of the sort eventuated, and I peered up at a street sign, then down at a dark blotch on the sidewalk. "That's Sophia's blood. She was bleeding to death right there while I was calling for the ambulance and waiting for it to get here." When I stepped over next to the blotch and knelt down, everything fitted my memories perfectly.

"Okay, then." He led the way back to the car. As I got into the back seat, Sophia slid off the hood and climbed in on the other side. "Now, I'm going to need the both of you to guide me. Which way to the hideout they were using?"

Before I answered, I dropped into the shadow realm for just a moment and looked around. The all-pervading darkness made the scene look eerily similar to the way it had last night, but I wasn't looking at that. Where I would normally have thought the area abandoned, I saw brain-constellations here and there. Some were lying down, but others were standing, and a few seemed to be moving in our direction.

"Pretty sure it's that direction," Sophia said, pointing down the street. "Hey, Taylor, something wrong?"

I nodded. "Yeah, that direction. Quickly. There's people in those buildings, and some of them know we're here."

"Moving off now." Dad set the car going. "Taylor, which way did you turn to get here?"

I tried to reconstruct our panicked, staggering flight, stringing the flashes of memory together into a coherent whole. It wasn't easy but going through it backward was harder still. "Uh left … maybe?"

"Wait, did you turn left, or do I turn left now?" He slowed as he approached the intersection.

"You turn left … I think." I frowned, poking at my memories. We'd leaned against a street corner, but which one? As we took the turn, I looked back over my shoulder and saw a clearly marked handprint on the corner behind us. "No, wait, that was supposed to be right!"

"You could've made up your mind a little earlier," he complained, but I could tell his heart wasn't in it. Checking behind and in front, he wheeled the car around in a U-turn and headed down the other way.

"Sorry." I shrugged. "Took me a little while to figure things out. I did have other things on my mind at the time."

"Excuses, excuses." He waved at the intersection that was just coming up. "Left, right or straight ahead?"

"Um …" I hesitated, not wanting to make the same mistake again. "Sophia?"

"I told you, I can't remember crap about this part. Slow down, Mr. H. Maybe she'll remember something if we're not going so fast."

"If we go any slower, we might as well be walking." But he eased off the pace anyway.

As we rolled into the intersection, I stared at all four street corners, trying to figure out which way we'd come. Nothing popped up in my memory, and I chewed my lip anxiously. The last thing I wanted to do was let down Sophia like this.

"Hey, down there!" She pointed past me, along the street. "Take a right!"

"Right you are." I was concentrating so hard I didn't notice the pun until it was far too late to groan. Dad slowed down even more and spun the steering wheel hard to the right. As it was, we were almost all the way through the intersection, and the front wheel mounted the curb briefly before we got around. "Did you see something you remember, Sophia?"

"No, but there's a bunch of assholes fussing around a dumpster like it's Christmas," she said, indicating through the windshield. "Think it's the same dumpster?"

I stared where she was pointing, trying to think. "… maybe?" I ventured. The dumpster by the side of the road was overflowing, just like the one we'd stashed her stuff behind last night, but that didn't mean much. Every trash can, dumpster and alleyway in this part of town was stuffed full of refuse.

Sophia nodded sharply, as if I'd answered in the affirmative. "What I thought. Let's go ask 'em politely if they found my stuff and would they kindly give it back, if they have."

"That sounds like a plan." Dad briefly glanced back at me. "Taylor, mask up time."

I took a deep breath, my heart starting to hammer. Last night I hadn't been this scared, but maybe I should've. "I wish I had the baseball bat," I said, apropos of nothing.

"We can get you one," Dad said tersely. "But your job is to stay out of situations where you're going to need it."

"Right, right." I pulled the scarf up over my face, then went into the shadow realm. It was a black scarf, getting a little tattered at the ends, but I wondered what it looked like with my eyes shining through it like headlights.

"Ooooh yeah," breathed Sophia. "Come to Mama." Making a hand motion that I interpreted as pulling a bandanna up over her lower face—a lot easier, she'd confided, than making a cloth mask that didn't interrupt vision—she waited until Dad had almost brought the car to a halt. Then she turned to mist (which made her just look a little fuzzy to my shadow-vision) and dived out through the door without bothering to open it.

"Stay in the car, Taylor." Dad stopped the car hard, then turned off the engine and applied the handbrake. Pulling up his own bandanna, he got out of the car in his turn.

I wanted to jump out as well, but deep down I knew I could do more for them just by staying back, keeping them powered up and not getting hurt. Still, it was irritating to be relegated to the back lines when my own Dad got to step up where I'd been. Once I acquired body armour, I decided, there would be changes.

"Hey, fuckos," Sophia addressed the group that were gathered next to the dumpster. "Mind showing me what you got there? Because I lost something around here, and—"

In the next moment, I knew for a fact that she'd been right. This was exactly where her stuff had been stashed. Partly because I recognised it, and partly because one of the group turned around with a hand crossbow and shot at her with it.

She had damn good reflexes, which she proved by going to shadow form. The arrow winged through where she'd been and kept going halfway across the street. Only halfway, because that was where it hit Dad right in the middle of the chest.

Now, normally that would've been a wound likely to put someone into intensive care, if not the morgue. In Dad's current state, I could tell it had done him a little damage—that was going to be a pain to fix, later—but he didn't even glance down at it. In a supremely badass move that I wasn't even sure he was aware of, he just kept walking toward them, arrow sticking out of his chest.

Sophia, on the other hand, went from casually enquiring to pissed-off in all of half a second. "Why you motherfucking—" Dropping back to normal, she went for the guy with the crossbow in a fluid blur of motion. Back in the hospital, I hadn't been sure if she was any faster when I was in the shadow realm. Now, my mind was made up, with a definite 'yes'.

Dad joined the fray a couple of seconds later, but Sophia was clearly holding her own. Her kicks and punches were sending people flying into walls and staggering back yards at a time, and when she got a good hit in, they just didn't get up again. One guy stepped back and reached into his jacket for something, and Dad simply picked him up and pile-drove him into the grimy concrete sidewalk.

When the car door beside me opened, it caught me by surprise. I really should have been keeping a lookout around me, so it was my own stupid fault the asshole managed to sneak up on me. But that was okay; when he grabbed me and dragged me out of the car, he gave me the chance to figure out what to do. First things first: deal with the knife he was trying to threaten me with.

"Right—" was all he managed before I smacked his wrist with the side of my arm then elbowed him in the neck, hard. Letting me go, he staggered backward, holding what my shadow-vision told me was a busted collar-bone. The cup of my sympathy would have runneth over, but it had a holeth in it.

His wrist wasn't doing too well either, but at least it didn't look broken … until I grabbed it and broke it. The snap echoed in my ears, but his high-pitched scream pretty well drowned out everything. I could kind of sympathise with him; after all, I knew what it was like to be suddenly up against someone who didn't give a shit how much they hurt me.

He tried to stagger away, but I kept right up with him. This time, I unloaded a punch into his ribs that snapped at least one and seriously bent a couple of others. It was possible, I decided as I pondered which of his bones to break next, that I had a thing against Merchants. Or just asshole gang members who tried to manhandle me.

"Okay, Tex, I think he's done for the day." Sophia's hand fell on my shoulder and stopped my advance on the guy who'd had the knife.

"He's still standing," I pointed out reasonably.

"True, true." She was holding the bundle under her arm, but that didn't hamper her in the slightest. Stepping forward, she swivelled her hips and performed a sweeping high kick that took Asshole McAsshole right across the side of the jaw and sent him sprawling into the gutter. "Okay, now he's done. You were hitting him hard, but you've gotta learn where to hit 'em."

"Showoff," I grumbled, but I climbed into the car after her anyway. "Did you get everything back?"

"Yup. Your dad's still holding one of the arrows … right, thanks, Mr. H." I watched, still in the shadow realm, as Dad pulled the arrow out of his chest and handed it back to her from the front seat.

"So, what'd their faces look like when it hit him and he just kept on going?" I asked as I buckled my seatbelt. "The shadow realm doesn't show me expressions, just skulls."

Sophia snorted with amusement. "Somewhere between 'oh shit' and 'I want my mommy'. Leaving the arrow in was kind of a genius move, just saying."

"To be honest, I didn't really notice it at the time," Dad admitted. "Took a couple of seconds to realise what he'd done."

"Well, now it's out, I can do this," I said, reaching forward to put my hand on his shoulder.

It cost me a large jolt to heal the arrow wound and take care of a few other minor contusions. Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed Sophia's arm and did the same for her. Doing the two so close together knocked the wind out of me as I'd figured it would, and I sagged back against the car seat.

"Whew," I panted, sliding back into the real world. "That was a thing."

"Yeah, but I got my shit back so we're done here." Sophia dumped the utility belt, crossbows and arrows on the car seat between us and started going through the pile.

"Oh, good. Where do we go from here?" I thought I knew, but the excitement of the fight had totally driven it out of my head.

"The Lord Street Market," Sophia reminded me. "So we can find proper costumes for you and your dad."

"Oh. Right. Yeah." I leaned back in the seat and relaxed as Dad started off again. "Here's hoping we find something worthwhile."

<><>​

Lord Street Market

Pre-Loved Clothing & Memorabilia

Sophia

"Oh, come on," groaned Sophia. "Corsets are absolutely in, and it'll make you look totally badass and spooky in a Vampirella kind of way."

"Nope." Taylor shook her head stubbornly. "If you think it's so badass, you wear it."

Sophia rolled her eyes. "You're being totes unreasonable, here. Don't you think so, Mr. H?"

"It'll just make me look like a wannabe tryhard," Taylor argued. "Dad?"

"Hey, don't drag me into this." Danny put his hands up in surrender. "All I know for a fact is that I'm not wearing the damn thing."

"Just try it on," Sophia urged, partly from sheer devilment and partly because she actually thought Taylor would rock a corset like nobody's business. "Check yourself out in the mirror. You might actually like it."

"I might also like smoking ten packs of cigarettes a day," Taylor retorted. "But I'm not about to try that, either."

"Of the two, I'm far more likely to be okay with the corset," Danny observed, sounding more than a little amused. "But it's Taylor's choice. If she doesn't want to, she doesn't have to."

Taylor gave him the side-eye. "You think I should too, don't you?"

"I never said that." Raising his hands in mock-surrender, he took a step back. "I didn't know what teenage girls were supposed to wear when I was a teenager. You think I'm any more switched-on about the subject now?"

She nodded to acknowledge his point. "Well, thanks for not trying to push me into it. Unlike some people, who can't seem to keep their opinions to themselves." Wrinkling her nose, she gave Sophia a dirty look.

It slid off Sophia's confidence like oil off … whatever oil was supposed to slide off. Anything, probably. Oil was famous for sliding off stuff. "Well, how are you supposed to know what you like and don't like unless you give it a chance?"

Taylor grabbed the corset out of Sophia's hands and dropped it back on the pile she'd taken it from. "I don't need to burn my hand to know I shouldn't stick it in the fire."

"Okay, fine." Sophia folded her arms and gave Taylor a challenging look. "You find stuff that'll make you look like a badass cape, then."

"But I'm not a badass cape," Taylor said, totally unhelpfully. "You're the badass one. You and Dad."

"On that, at least, I beg to differ," her father interjected. "When that one gang member grabbed you out of the car, you were definitely holding your own before Sophia showed up."

"And she flattened him in one hit, while I was just using him like a punching bag." Taylor shook her head. "You two are the badasses. I'm just the enabler, I guess."

A loud bang from outside distracted Sophia from the argument. "You guys hear that?"

"Yeah." Danny glanced around. "It would've been pretty hard to miss. Didn't sound like a gunshot, though."

"No, it wasn't a shot," Sophia agreed. "Car crash, maybe? I thought I heard metal crunching."

At that moment, there was a second bang, louder this time.

"Yeah, I definitely heard the crunch that time," Taylor said. "Should we go and see what's happening?"

"Absolutely." Sophia headed for the checkout. "Buy what you've got and let's get going."

Danny had gone with a wide-brimmed hat and a wide cape, while Taylor hadn't done much except refuse to even try on the corset. Sophia still thought that was a waste of potential, but maybe that was because she liked the concept of corsets in general. If it had fitted in any way with her costume theme, she would've gone with one herself.

The guy on checkout seemed a bit nervous, but that was more likely because of the sounds of violence outside than the fact that Taylor was wearing wraparound shades she'd found elsewhere. At the last moment, she grabbed a T-shirt portraying the full moon rising over a graveyard, and threw that into the pile. It was better than nothing, Sophia decided.

Once they were out of the second-hand clothing place, the next move was to find someplace to make the change in private. This quickly proved near-impossible, as people were rushing everywhere, some seeking safety and others trying to find out what was going on. Market Enforcers shouting sometimes-contradictory orders, didn't help in the slightest.

"Screw it," Sophia decided in the end. After checking for cameras, she stepped into a corner and fastened her cloak around her neck then fitted the hockey mask onto her face. Donning the armour padding would've been nice, but it was a time-consuming process and she was a lot tougher now anyway. As she made sure of the mask, she saw that Danny had put on his own makeshift costume and pulled his bandanna up, while Taylor had dragged the T-shirt on over her other shirt.

"Ready?" asked Danny.

"No, but let's do this anyway," Taylor said, pulling the scarf up to cover her lower face.

Sophia grinned and slapped her on the shoulder. "That's the spirit."

<><>​

Taylor

When we got outside, it was a cross between bedlam and total mayhem, with a side order of catastrophe. At first I'd thought maybe the Merchant leadership had shown up to exact vengeance for the beatdown we'd done of their boys at the dumpster. But it wasn't that. It was much worse.

"You're shitting me," Sophia said blankly as she watched Hookwolf attempting to bludgeon Lung over the head with a motorcycle; or rather, half a motorcycle after Lung caught it with a clawed hand. "I know I said the ABB and the Empire could both attack here, but at the same time? What the fuck is going on?"

"I don't know," Dad said tensely, "but this is way out of our capabilities. We need to get people to safety, and fast." Because while the smart thing to do would've been to back the hell away from the parking lot full of capes duking it out, the bystanders … weren't. Some were just rubbernecking, while others were pointing cameras, or even getting pictures of themselves in front of the fight.

"Only in Brockton Bay," I said, shaking my head. "Okay, power-up coming online … now." As I said the word, I pulled the scarf up to cover my entire face and went into the shadow realm. Maybe I could get a set of thin metal eye-covers, I thought briefly. Paint them to look like sunglasses from the outside.

But that was for later. There were people in danger who needed saving right now. Some had gotten into their cars, then attempted to drive right past the battling capes, resulting in the cars being wrecked and in some cases overturned. Others were trapped by wreckage simply because they were too close when someone flipped a car on top of them.

This was exactly when I would've been happy to see the Protectorate and PRT show up, along with New Wave and maybe the Wards for backup. No such luck; it seemed the only capes on site not aligned with either the white-supremacist racists or the Asian-supremacist racists were me, Dad and Sophia.

This wasn't to say that there weren't other people trying to help, but they didn't have powers. I saw a cop—at least, he had a gun and a radio—skirting the mayhem and alternating between calling for backup and ordering people to leave the area. A couple of Market Enforcers were standing much farther back; not altogether surprising, as they only carried billy clubs and pepper spray. That stuff, as far as I knew, would only serve to piss off Hookwolf or Lung.

Dad and Sophia, with their enhanced capabilities, were doing well in the search and rescue stakes. I watched as they rocked one overturned car up at an angle, then Sophia held it there while Dad tore the door off altogether and tossed it aside. In the shadow realm, I was stronger and tougher than normal, but this really underlined the fact that my power boosted them to whole new levels of strength.

A nearby scream, abruptly choked off, drew my attention. Looking around, I saw that Hookwolf had tossed aside the shredded remains of the motorcycle. The flying wreckage had hit the cop squarely, smashing him to the ground.

Dad and Sophia were busy with another car, this one on fire, so I couldn't call on them. Besides, the scuffle with the Merchants had proven I could take care of myself. Keeping one eye on the combatants—Lung's skeleton was oddly twisting and growing all the time, while Hookwolf's seemed to be either made of metal or clad in it—I hurried over to the stricken police officer.

When I got there, I could see it was bad. Bits of sharp steel had punched through his body, where I was pretty sure most people kept their important organs. His brain constellation was fluctuating, which I took as a sign he was dying before my eyes.

His head turned as I knelt beside him. "Get … get away," he gurgled. I could smell the sharp tang of blood, a scent I dearly wished I wasn't familiar with. "Save … save y'rself."

"Hey," I said quietly. "I can make it better. I can fix this, sort of. Do you want me to help?"

I couldn't see his eyes, but I could almost feel his stare burning into me, even as the life drained from his body. "Yeeaaa…" It was more of an exhalation than a word. He didn't breathe in again. His brain constellation went from almost unbearably bright to steadily dimming.

Well, that was good as I was going to get, where permission was concerned. Grabbing the hunk of metal, I heaved it off him, hearing the sucking sounds as the sharp bits were pulled out of the wounds they'd made. I was obscurely glad that the shadow realm made it impossible for me to see blood. I couldn't do anything about being able to smell it, but them's the breaks.

Carefully, I laid my hand on his shoulder and concentrated. Live, I told him silently, forcing down my misgivings. This wasn't going to be like the Merchant goon; that guy had been a murderous asshole. A cop killed in the line of duty was a whole different case.

While it was still a jolt, I found bringing him back was a whole lot easier than Sophia or Dad or even the Merchant. Maybe it was how newly dead he was, or possibly the fact that he'd died in the process of doing something. Whichever it was, he transitioned from glowing skeleton to uniformed (if bloodstained) cop in less than a second, then sat up and looked around a second later.

"What the hell?" he demanded, then patted his stomach and stared at the chunk of motorcycle. "Did I just die? It felt like I just died."

"You did," I informed him. "I brought you back. How are you feeling?"

That brought his attention fully onto me. "You … I thought you were going to heal me. Like Panacea does. But you didn't do that, did you?"

I shook my head. This guy was definitely switched on. "No. I can only bring back the dead. I have no idea how permanent it is. But you seemed like you needed it."

"Oh, you're not wrong about that." He jumped to his feet then looked at his radio. The microphone was crushed and useless. "God damn it. Miss … what's your name, anyway?"

"We're going with Animator, for the moment." It seemed an odd conversation to hold with a freshly-dead cop, but since when had my life been normal after getting powers?

"Got it, and thanks." He gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement. "We need to talk, later. But for now, you need to fall back a bit. Some of those gang members are getting a bit too close for my liking."

I was totally in agreement. As I'd also found out in the scuffle at the dumpster, while I could hit like a freight train, I wasn't trained in using that strength. Sophia was definitely better at it than me, and even Dad was revealing hidden depths all the time. A cop? Yeah, he had the training that counted.

As I backed off, I saw him head for the gang members who were just now beginning to come onto the property. A few of them shot at him, but I couldn't tell if they hit or not. His return shots definitely scored, but there was more of them than he had bullets and they knew it.

They closed in around him once his gun ran dry, but that was their mistake. He'd very quickly learned that he was much stronger than before, and far more capable of taking physical punishment. For him, 'surrounded' was more a case of 'target rich environment'. Anyone who came at him with ill intent found that out the hard way. And when he hit someone with his nightstick, they went down and didn't get up any time soon. Still, there were a lot of them and more than once they nearly succeeded in mobbing him down.

However, he wasn't alone in his fight for long. Once Sophia and Dad finished their search and rescue efforts, they saw what was going on with the encroaching gang members and joined the battle. This allowed the cop to turn the tide from 'holding his own' to 'clean sweep'. Between the three of them, they managed to stop the oncoming members of the ABB and Empire Eighty-Eight from using the distraction of the battle to sneak through into the Market.

Sirens were approaching from several directions when the last of the gang members fell. Lung and Hookwolf were still duking it out, the latter looking a little the worse for wear, but he had Krieg and Alabaster on his side. It wasn't precisely an even match, but one that Lung apparently wasn't willing to push harder on.

This became evident when he started moving off, leaping across the street in a single bound then onto a rooftop on his second jump. Nobody followed; Hookwolf and the other Empire capes backed off themselves in good order, ducking out of sight just as the first police and PRT vehicles roared into view.

Some of the gang members had gotten up and staggered off. I wasn't worried about those. The police would round them up later, or they wouldn't. My concern was mainly with Sophia and Dad, and of course my newest revival.

"You okay?" asked Dad, coming over to me. "You've got blood on your knees and your hands."

I hadn't noticed that, mainly because I was still in the shadow realm. Fatigue was starting to build up behind my eyes, and I knew I was going to have to drop it sooner rather than later, but I still had things to do. "I'm fine," I said briefly. "That cop got killed." I laid my hand on his arm.

"So you brought him back, too? Huh. Well, better him than one of these other assholes," Sophia said. "He went in there like a boss, too." She slid her arm under mine so that when I gave Dad a jolt of healing energy, my knees didn't just go out from under me. "Okay, yeah, hold onto me. You might want to turn your eyes off for a bit, they're starting to flicker."

My vision was indeed beginning to pulse from shadow realm to real world and back again, but I wasn't finished. "I've still got to fix your injuries," I insisted.

She rolled her eyes behind the hockey mask. "I'll keep. You need to juice yourself up again, damn it."

"Okay, fine." I knew the cop also needed his injuries—pre and post demise—seen to, and there was no way in hell I was going to manage that in this state. So I dropped back into the real world and pulled my scarf down so I could see; the ravaged parking lot had a lot more visual impact than the shadowy darkness with see-through wreckage.

Looking Sophia over, I couldn't see much wrong with her. Her clothing was a little scuffed, but there were no obvious stab marks or bullet holes; no new ones, anyway. Dad's injuries had mainly consisted of physical contusions, easily fixed.

Across the lot, the freshly arrived PRT and cops started taking the remaining gang members into custody. A few gathered around my newest friend; I couldn't hear what they were saying, but their body language shouted holy shit, how are you alive loud and clear. He turned and gestured toward where I stood with Dad and Sophia, then led the way toward me.

"What the hell did you do?" shouted one of the other cops as we got within easy talking distance. "Look at him! He's dead on his feet!"

"No need to shout," I said in a normal tone. "I'm sorry, but your friend is actually deceased. I couldn't stop that from happening. Before he went, I asked his permission to bring him back, which he gave. And here he is."

"I did actually say yes, Frank," the dead officer confirmed. "It was about the last thing I remember doing." He turned to me and offered his hand. "Sorry, I didn't introduce myself before. Kenny Lagos. How does this work, anyway?"

Again, I noted the lack of emotional response to the understanding that he was dead. It felt more than a little creepy, but I was glad I wasn't having to deal with a full-grown adult in a hysterical tantrum. "Pleased to meet you too, Officer Lagos. Would you like me to heal your current injuries?"

He frowned. "Would that make me alive again? That seems a little … too easy."

"And you'd be correct," Dad agreed. "You'll still be dead. But nobody will be able to tell outside of a medical examination."

Lagos looked at him sharply, then at Sophia. "Wait … are you telling me …"

Sophia nodded. "Yup. We're both dead, too. Murdered by Merchants. Brought back by my bestie there." She hooked her thumb in my direction.

I took a deep breath. "You asked me before how this works. I wanted you up and walking, so you are. You're not under my control, but you can't hurt me. As far as I can tell, you'll keep on going indefinitely unless I decide to cut you off from my power, and then you're dead for good."

"Oh, and one other thing," added Dad, sounding amused. "You don't sleep anymore. I found that one out last night. If you don't have a hobby, I suggest you take one up."

Lagos shook his head, as if trying to settle his thoughts. "You said you could fix my injuries." He gestured toward where his chest had been half caved in by the motorcycle wreckage. "Can you fix that, so they don't keep trying to drag me off to the paramedics?"

"Okay, sure," I said. "My eyes are gonna glow for a bit, okay?" Taking a breath and bracing myself, I dropped back into the shadow realm. Lagos, Sophia and Dad remained the same, while everyone else became a glowing skeleton with a blinding galaxy for a head. "Here we go."

Reaching out, I put my hand on the officer's arm and exerted my power. The jolt seriously drained me, but I managed to stay on my feet with Sophia's assistance. I was glad to be able to drop back into the real world afterward, though.

Lagos patted his face and chest and looked down at himself in what I interpreted as mild disbelief. "That's amazing. Can you do that every time?"

I nodded. "Yes, but it's not exactly easy, especially if you're seriously beaten up. On the upside, you can get around with life-threatening injuries and it won't particularly bother you. Also, you don't have to breathe, though you can if you really want to."

"Right, right." He glanced to the left and right, then leaned in toward me. Lowering his voice, he murmured, "Does this mean I'm a … you know, a zombie?"

I sighed, remembering Rodney's idiocy. "No. It doesn't. It means my power has told your body and brain that you're still alive, all evidence to the contrary. Please don't try biting anyone to test that one out, as I can't be held responsible for what people might do in retaliation. However, I would be careful about taking catastrophic injuries to the head. That might just break the link."

My matter-of-fact approach seemed to disarm his worries. "Okay, right, I won't. Is there a range limit involved? Can I go back to the precinct house? Can I go home?"

I shrugged and decided to go with what I'd told the PRT. "If you don't leave Brockton Bay, you should be fine. And when you do go home, it's up to you what you tell your family. But please be discreet. And don't use the Z-word, even as a joke. I've already had to deal with one moron who thought I was patient zero for a plague of the undead."

"Ah. Right." He blinked. "I, uh, live with my girlfriend. Um …" His voice trailed off.

I raised my hands as if to ward off the unspoken questions, some of which I thought I'd figured out, and many I didn't even want to think about. "I honestly have no idea how to address that. It's seriously between you and her. I mean, there's a chance you'll simply lose interest in physical relationships, but then again you might not. I literally have no idea how my power works in that situation."

He grimaced and nodded. "That's fair. I guess I should think about taking some paid leave to figure out my situation."

Dad shrugged. "If you've got life insurance, you might want to think about trying to cash it in. Though good luck with convincing them that you're actually dead. Walking and talking tends to be a counter-indication to that sort of thing."

Officer Lagos rubbed the back of his head and grimaced again. "Is it just me, or did my life just get a whole lot more complicated instead of less? I thought death was supposed to be the other way around."

"Hey, buddy," Sophia said. "It is what it is. Welcome to a very exclusive club."

"And if you think your life just got weirder," I added, "look at it from my point of view."

From his shudder, he'd gotten my point. "No, thanks. Pass."

"We'll leave it up to you to decide exactly how you're going to explain to your superiors what's happened to you," Dad said. "Feel free to get checked out medically. It'll just confirm what we've just told you. If we need to get in touch, we'll contact you through the BBPD. But apart from that … make the most of your second chance, I guess. And keep in mind what I told you about hobbies."

"Thank you, sir." Lagos offered Dad his hand and they shook firmly. "What are your plans now?"

Dad gestured at the Market. "Shopping."

"Really?"

Sophia rolled her eyes. "For costumes." From the elbow-jab she gave me, I knew she hadn't forgotten the corset.

"Ah."



End of Part Ten

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Eleven: Learning Curve

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal].



"Wait, wait." Officer Lagos held up his hand. "How do I get in contact with you, if something weird happens, or if I've got questions?"

I shared a glance with Dad. It would be unfair to cut the poor guy off like that, but I knew I didn't feel comfortable just spreading my real name around. I was wearing a mask for a reason, after all. And the Merchants were unlikely to be the only ones willing to murder a cape or their family members.

"I, uh, I'll be starting a PHO account under the name of 'Animator'," I ventured. "Just as soon as we get home. You can send me PMs that way."

"And in the meantime, you can PM me on my Shadow Stalker account." Sophia added. "I haven't been using it much, but I'll check it more often now. Any questions I can't answer, I'll pass on to Animator."

"Before I forget," I said hastily, "you don't need to breathe anymore, so don't get too worried if you forget. Also, if you feel a boost of energy every now and again, that's perfectly normal. And we're working out the rules on eating and drinking. Food apparently still tastes good, but we don't know if it's necessary."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "Right. I hadn't even thought about that. Thanks a lot. I appreciate … well … everything." He held out his hand.

"You're welcome." I shook it. "Don't hesitate to get in touch if you need repairs or if you've just got questions."

"Okay, I'll do that." He turned away to his fellow officers then. From the looks on their faces, they were going to be wanting full chapter and verse on what had just happened. Not that I blamed them. It was a scary situation, from anyone's perspective.

"Hey," Sophia said as we headed back toward the Market. "We don't have to breathe, do we?"

"It doesn't seem to be a requirement anymore, no," answered Dad. "Except for Taylor. She's still boring and normal." He shot me a sly glance of amusement.

I poked my tongue out at the both of them, forgetting that I still had the bandanna over my mouth and nose. "Well, your sense of humour needs to be buried in a shallow grave, so nothing's changed there. Why so excited about not needing to breathe anymore?"

"When I go into shadow form, I still need air," Sophia explained. "In the open, I can just absorb it. But if I'm inside something, I've gotta keep moving or it starts hurting like a sonovabitch. I'm wondering if that's even a thing now."

Dad raised his eyebrows. "So basically, being dead has allowed you to act even more like a ghost than usual?"

I was impressed; even behind the full-face mask, the dirty look she gave him was phenomenal. "Okay, yeah, I get what Taylor meant about your sense of humour. That was bad."

"It was." I looked at Sophia. "You think your vulnerability to electricity might be minimised, too?"

"That's something we might need to be careful about testing," Dad cautioned. "We still feel stuff, so our nervous systems are still intact. Biology classes all over the world use electricity to make dead frogs twitch … and our nervous systems are attached to our brains."

It took Sophia a moment to get his point. "Oh, you're saying it might disrupt whatever Taylor's doing to keep us up and moving?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Dad looked meaningfully at Sophia, then at me. "We might not be as immune to everything as we think. So it will absolutely be a good idea to be careful about things like that, until we know for sure."

"Definitely," I said. "Please. I just got you guys back. I don't want to lose you again." The idea of some idiot with a taser killing Dad or Sophia for real when tasers weren't even lethal to living people was scary.

"I'm kind of enjoying being alive … or not-dead … or whatever the hell you call this," Sophia agreed. "There's a shitload of potential in this, is what I'm saying."

"How about 'Animated'?" Dad asked. "You know, to go with the cape name."

Sophia's shrug indicated that she didn't care a whole heap about what she called the state of being back from the dead, but I thought it was a reasonably descriptive name. "I'm good with that," I said.

"Good." Sophia indicated a side alley. "Now if we're done talking about what to call us, you guys still haven't finished shopping for costume accessories."

I raised my eyebrows. This, at least, she could see. "Sure, but no corsets."

She made a rude noise. "Spoilsport. You could really rock that thing."

"Pass. You wear it."

"Nah. Not really my deal."

"And it is mine?"

"Well, yeah."

"Nope."

"Sophia, stop telling Taylor she has to wear a corset."

"Eh, whatever."

<><>​

PRT Building ENE
Director Emily Piggot

"Hmm." Emily paused in the middle of curating her emails and determining which needed to be kicked downstairs; as efficient as her secretary was, a few always snuck through the vetting process.

The one that had caught her eye was from Williams of the BBPD and was titled, 'Ongoing Breaker Effect on Officer K Lagos'.

Breaker effects were usually placed on the cape, not on other people. So unless Lagos had triggered—which she definitely wanted to know about—whoever had placed the effect was a Trump, not a Breaker. Either way, this was something she needed to deal with.

Opening the email, she found two files within. There was a brief note from Williams, and an actual police report about a cape fight up near the Lord Street Market. She'd heard about that one; Armsmaster had shown up after the fact, decided that the police had everything under control now that the capes had moved on, and gone back on patrol. Maybe he should've stayed a little longer, if there was more to it.

She started with the report itself; better to get the full background first than go in with false impressions. When she got to the part about the capes stepping in to save civilians, she frowned. Shadow Stalker she knew of as an often-violent vigilante, but she'd never heard of a Brute in Brockton Bay sporting a wide-brimmed hat and a cloak. This can't be what Williams is emailing me about.

Reading on, she sat up at the description of the death of Officer Lagos, then his return to an effectively living state. The report ended with the name of Animator as the cape apparently responsible for Lagos' current situation. She went over to the note from Williams.

Director, it went, I was there when Lagos was debriefed. He looks entirely alive, if you discount the fact that he has no heartbeat and no discernible pain reaction. He also held his breath on command for over ten minutes with zero signs of distress. According to him, 'Animator' is the person who placed him in this condition after his death. We're keeping it as much on the low-down as we can, and Lagos has been officially placed on sick leave until we can figure something out, but any insights you or your people can supply would be invaluable.

She sat there for a moment, pondering the implications, then clicked through the menu to re-open the file containing Lieutenant Grant's report on the incident at the hospital. A moment later, her lips skinned back from her teeth as she spotted the phrasing that she recalled from her earlier reading. How many capes have eyes that go from shining like a spotlight to pools of darkness? She suspected that the answer, at least in Brockton Bay, was in the region of 'one'.

All the same, that may have been a false positive, except for the whole 'bringing back from the dead' aspect. She would've been more inclined to be skeptical about the concept—what happened to Lagos might yet have been a trigger event, or a genuine healing with some extremely idiosyncratic side-effects—were it not for Doctor Cartwright's expert testimony regarding the effects of Animator's powers. One data point could be an outlier; three (four, if she counted the dead gang member) were a lot harder to ignore.

Okay, then. It seems we have a cape in Brockton Bay who can return the dead to a strong semblance of life. More importantly, to the point where they can answer questions about such things as 'who killed you'. And then go and do something about it. She sat back in her chair, drawing a deep breath and clenching her hands together so hard her fingers hurt. That power could be a game changer, under the right circumstances. Like an Endbringer battle.

She just wished she wasn't so fucking creeped out by the whole idea.

<><>​

Coil

God, I need a proper power base.

Thomas Calvert was a man with capital-A Ambitions. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have put himself in hock with Cauldron for the uncertainty of powers in a bottle. The powers had turned out satisfactorily, but the cost had been more than he could pay up front. While he'd almost succeeded in paying the money back, he knew they still had a week's worth of service they could call on him for at any time.

And as an ambitious man, it grated on him. He utterly despised being held down, held back, from achieving his goals. Cauldron had enough money, enough resources, that they hadn't needed to bleed him dry and put him into debt to them.

Needed, no. They'd chosen to do that to him, to rub it in that they were in control at all times. He supposed that it was a filter of sorts; only those who were desperate enough to dig this deep were allowed to get powers. Cauldron wanted people who were hungry for powers, who would actually get out there and do something with them.

He supposed he hated them for putting him through the wringer, but it wasn't as though he could do anything about it. His first meeting with Doctor Mother's utterly fucking terrifying enforcer had convinced him that there was absolutely zero percentage in harbouring secret plans of evening the score. Cauldron did what it did for its own reasons, and all he could do was pay them off and make his own way in the world with the powers he'd been sold.

Once he was fully paid off, he could start building his bank account again, instead of riding it with just enough money to keep his expenses paid from month to month. He'd be able to see about acquiring a purpose-built base and hiring a crew to do his dirty work for him.

Right now, he was able to parlay his prior experience with the PRT into occasional work as a consultant; given enough time and a sympathetic ear (even if he had to bribe someone to offer one), he figured he'd eventually be able to ease his way back into the ranks. Just not yet.

One of his big weaknesses was that although he could pick and choose between potential outcomes, there was precious little he could do to influence those outcomes without muscle of his own. Even a low-powered cape with the right power offered considerable flexibility in his plans, more than a comparably priced mundane mercenary would allow him. Thinkers would be best, but he would take what he could get.

He didn't have any contacts inside the PRT building; his consultancy work had yet to gain him that level of access. However, he'd managed to subvert a few file clerks in the BBPD, which was why he was now perusing a report about a cape who could reportedly bring people back from the dead. Splitting time, he followed a hunch onto the PHO boards, tracking back through mentions of weird incidents until he struck gold with a claim of a zombie outbreak.

It had to be the same trio, he decided as he jotted down notes. A girl—calling herself Animator in the police report—and her father, and the other girl was Shadow Stalker. The confirmation by the PRT that it was Animator's trigger event was just icing on the cake.

Brockton General, hmm? I wonder …

Opening a new window, he began to enter queries. He was no hacker, but digging out someone's identity with this many clues to go on could hardly be called hacking.

RaffieStaffie, you and I need to have a little chat.

<><>​

Hebert Household
Evening, August 30, 2009
Taylor

It had taken the better part of a day to assemble all the parts of my costume, but I figured I was finally ready. I'd fitted a layer of aluminium foil into the wraparound sunglasses I got from the Market, so I could cover the glow if I needed to. Concealing the blackness when I was out of shadow realm was another problem, but I figured I'd deal with that when I came to it.

After all, I had a whole day before school let back in. Yay.

For the main parts of my costume, I went with a funerary veil attached to a broad-brimmed hat, thick enough to conceal my features. I'd found a black dress a few sizes larger than I usually wore, which gave me room for body armour under it; Sophia and I had artistically tattered the sleeves and hem, then attached strips of black gauze to add a flowing, ghostly appearance. If these caught on anything, we'd made sure they would tear off easily enough.

Pinned to the dress was a silver skull brooch, front and centre. Underneath it all, I wore black tights and solid boots, because I might need to run occasionally and I didn't want to turn a heel.

We were divided on the corset; Sophia had eventually bought it, though she'd given up trying to persuade me to even try it on. She just waved it at me occasionally in a playfully threatening way. I was considering getting a spray bottle as a way of retaliation.

In the end, we compromised. I didn't wear it, but it didn't get thrown away either.

Dad and Sophia had stuck with the all-black theme. Or rather, Sophia kept her costume, merely adding a cheap plastic skull pin to the shoulder of her cloak. Dad swapped out his hat for a top hat he found somewhere, shabby but with the look of something that had been once quite expensive. He'd added a long-coat instead of the cloak. Under it, he decided to wear basic black, with another one of those skull pins on his long-coat. When he added a walking cane (also with a skull head) to his ensemble, he had the undertaker look down pat.

We'd found the skull pins in a Halloween display, and bought a couple of dozen … just in case. Maybe I could carry some on me, so I could give them out to people I'd raised with my power. It sounded kinda morbid, but if the last few days had proven anything to me, it was that people died in Brockton Bay on a more or less hourly basis.

Setting up my PHO account was actually kind of fun. Dad and Sophia debated whether to have my avatar image show me in the shadow realm or out of it. Sophia preferred 'out', because (as she put it) the skull look was badass. Also, it would get me away from any 'high beam' jokes … which, after I realised what she was talking about, I absolutely agreed with.

So Sophia took pics of me with her phone and emailed them to my computer, causing Dad to shake his head slightly and mumble something about 'modern technology'. We put the best one of them up for the new account—The_Real_Animator, as just plain 'Animator' was apparently taken—and then followed the process Sophia had used to get the (Verified Cape) tag attached to it. This involved another photo of me wearing the same costume, holding a sign bearing the code phrase 'I'm a little teapot'.

"Okay," I said, sitting back from the computer. "I'm a verified superhero now, according to PHO. What's next?"

"What's next," Sophia said cheerfully, "is that we costume up and go out looking for trouble to stop." She gave Dad a sideways glance. "Because you were just gonna say that tomorrow's a school night, right?"

Dad nodded, but he didn't seem too surprised. We both knew Sophia pretty well by now, and she knew us. "That's absolutely correct. Taylor can stay home—"

"No," I said flatly. "Taylor is not staying home while my dad and my best friend go out into harm's way."

"You still need to learn how to fight—" Sophia began.

I wasn't having any of it. "I won't be jumping into any fights, but I need to be nearby to know when to give you boosts, and to fix you after the fact. Also, if anyone dies, I'm going to need to be there." I clenched my fists. "That's not negotiable."

Sophia shared a glance with Dad. "She's not gonna back down on this one, Mr. H," she advised him. "I've seen that look on her face before."

He snorted. "You think I don't know that? I raised her." He turned back to me. "I'm still concerned about you being able to protect yourself if someone sneaks up on you."

I rolled my eyes, not that he'd be able to see that. "Remember what happened to the last guy who tried? Even before Sophia got there, I was kicking the shit out of him."

"Yeah, but not fast enough." Sophia rummaged in the bag she kept her costume and other gear in, and came up with a dully-gleaming black cylinder, about an inch thick and eight inches long. "This is how you put them down on the first hit."

"What is that?" I asked, peering at it. The only thing it looked like to me was a gun barrel, but where was the rest of the gun?

"The important question is, 'where did you get a collapsible baton from'?" asked Dad.

Sophia wrinkled her nose at him, probably for spoiling her big reveal. "Ways and means, Mr. H. Ways and means. So yeah, this is a collapsible baton." She flicked it with her wrist like she was cracking a whip, and with a click-click-click sound the baton was suddenly a foot longer. When she gave it an experimental swing, I heard the hiss as it cut through the air. "Not as bulky as the Baseball Bat of Doom, but it will absolutely fuck up some asshole's entire night."

"Ooh," I said. "Yeah, I can see that." The way she was swinging it, I could see the metal button on the end would hit hard. "Can I try?"

"Sure." She placed the button against her palm and pressed hard, and the whole thing compressed to just the length of the handle again. Then she handed it to me and stepped back. "To open it up, imagine there's a big ugly cockroach on the end and you're trying to get it off."

"Right." I flicked the baton as she had, and it extended with the same solid metallic noise. As I swung it back and forth, getting used to the weight, I could feel the power behind it. "I like. A lot."

"Why am I not surprised?" Dad asked dryly. "Come on, let's go down to the basement and you can practice hitting things without dropping it."

"I'm not going to drop it!" I protested. "Tell him, Sophia. I'm not going to drop it."

Instead of jumping straight to my defence, she waggled her hand from side to side. "Maybe, maybe not. Until you learn to hit properly with it, it'll jar your wrist pretty bad. I dropped it a few times, starting out. Probably a good idea to get some practice in a place where it won't matter."

I looked back at Dad, who raised his eyebrows interrogatively. He'd said his piece, and that was it.

I rolled my eyes again. "Okay, fine. We'll go down to the basement and I'll show you I'm perfectly capable of holding onto a skinny metal club."

And so, we headed down into the basement.

<><>​

I dropped the baton, of course. Not once, but several times.

Swinging a metal stick at a wooden post was harder than it looked.

Dad and Sophia didn't laugh, but I could hear them smirking.

But in the end, I beat the living fuck out of that support post.

<><>​

Rodney Stafford

It's just not fair.

Rodney sat slumped on the sofa in his apartment, glowering at the TV. He wasn't even watching the game show currently on the screen; his thought processes were entirely taken up by the resentment and anger roiling in his gut. He'd seen enough horror movies to know how not to react when zombies or Monsters from the Deep showed up. Smart people didn't stand around saying 'how interesting' and poking at the Eldritch Horror from Beyond the Stars. They raised the fucking alarm.

So he'd raised the alarm. He'd done the right thing. And when the PRT showed up, he was the one who got in trouble. How the fuck was that fair?

Following that episode, it was clear that everyone in any position of authority had a firm grip on the Idiot Ball, so he'd been forced to take the next step. If the people in charge were going to refuse to do anything, then the public needed to know.

PHO was best for that. Everyone who was anyone had an account. And fortunately he still had his phone on him when he was sent to mop the hallway. That stupid ape Simon caught him at it, but at least he got the message out.

The discussion with Doctor Cartwright had been uncomfortable to say the least, but at the end of it he still had his job … barely. However, he'd been told to take the next few days off, almost as though Cartwright thought he was overstressed or something. Rodney was actually okay with this, because that let him bunker down in his apartment (complete with tinned food, bottled water and bug-out bag at the ready) while he alternated between seething about how stupid and short-sighted Cartwright and the PRT were, and browsing the news sites for any mention of the zombie outbreak.

His anger at the idiots running society redoubled when he found that not only was nobody taking his warning seriously, but he'd actually been temp-banned from posting any new content to PHO for a week. Was it a conspiracy? Or was this just a sign of how horribly broken things actually were?

If he'd been told a month before that not only was a zombie apocalypse imminent but that the very people society depended on to keep them safe from such things would actively deny and ignore the fact of it, he would've considered them paranoid and alarmist. But now, having seen the phenomenon for himself, he was beginning to understand how such a thing could happen in real life. People didn't want to know. They deliberately went out of their way to not know.

The only bright point in all this, and he wasn't sure whether to celebrate or worry, was that there didn't seem to be any ongoing active apocalypse at the moment. Even the fringe sites frequented by the tinfoil-hat community were relatively quiet, speculating on whether Alexandria was currently pregnant with Eidolon's baby or Myrddin's, and whether or not Dragon had a hand in formulating the chemtrails that caused everyone to hallucinate Endbringer attacks. Nothing at all about zombie outbreaks.

When he tried to force the issue by speculating about it, he was shut down and accused of being a provocateur, then insulted and told to 'git gud nuub'. Any comment he made was brigaded and downvoted to a fare-thee-well. As a final insult, he found that someone had dug up his PHO post and was sharing it across the boards to general mockery.

<><>​

Coil
Throwaway Timeline

Raising his hand, Thomas double-checked the number then knocked on the apartment door. There was a long pause, even as the TV continued to sound from within.

"Who is it?" The voice held caution and suspicion.

"Mr Stafford, my name is Thomas Calvert." He could've used a fake name, but he hadn't gotten around to faking up genuine-looking ID to suit, so he simply chose to use his real name in throwaway timelines. "Could you open the door, please?"

The hesitation that followed made Thomas wonder exactly how much mockery Stafford had endured over his claims. Paradoxically, this was likely to make his task easier, not harder, so long as he played his cards correctly.

"Why? Who are you and what do you want?" Yes, he's definitely had a hard time of it.

Thomas affected a sigh, as though his patience was being tried. "Mr Stafford, I'd rather not broadcast my business to everyone in this building. Let's just say I'm here about the reason you're not at work."

Silence reigned from the other side of the door, then the tiny spot of light in the peephole was obscured. He kept a neutral expression on his face while Stafford looked him over; the suit and tie were well-cut, but not ridiculously expensive. People trusted men in suits when it came to high-level decisions, just as they trusted men in high-vis gear and carrying clipboards for other matters. He'd had occasion to use both, from time to time.

He heard the chain go on its catch, then the door was unlocked and opened. Stafford peered out, discontent stamped on his unshaven features. Thomas kept a smile from his face; this couldn't have been a better opportunity if he'd slapped a thousand dollars into Stafford's hand to play along.

"Thank you," he said, lowering his tone. "Mr Stafford, I'm a PRT-affiliated consultant, and I need to speak to you in private about the issue that I mentioned."

"PRT?" Stafford shook his head. "They came to the hospital, but then they went away again without doing a damned thing." Remembered disgust was strong in his voice.

"That's because even the PRT is only as good as the orders they are given," Calvert said, pretending irritation. "As a consultant, I happened to sight the report. Everyone else is downplaying it. I'm not. I need to find out what you know, so we can nip this in the bud before it gets any further." Take the bait, take the bait …

From the way Stafford's eyes lit up, Thomas may well have appeared as the second coming of the Messiah. "Yes, yes, of course," he babbled, closing the door briefly so he could take the chain off. Stepping aside, he beckoned for Thomas to enter. "Come on in. I'll tell you everything."

"Excellent." Thomas made his voice warm and reassuring as he closed the door behind him. "You're an exceptional young man, you know. It's only due to you that the zombies aren't already overrunning the city." It was total bullshit but to an already-primed idiot, it was believable bullshit.

"What, really?" Stafford's voice squeaked into a higher octave on the second word. He cleared his throat before continuing. "I mean, really? Because of me?"

Oh yeah, he's hooked. Now I've just got to land him. "Absolutely. May I sit?" Without waiting for an answer, Thomas took a seat at the edge of the ragged armchair that looked like it had been once salvaged from a dumpster. He wouldn't have been surprised; intern pay wasn't great. "The fuss you made at the hospital, although it got you in trouble, also served notice to the zombie maker that at least someone recognised her true goals. She hasn't been expanding her horde, or even attacking people, at least in public. This has given us valuable breathing room that we—you and I—can put to good use."

"Yeah, but how are we going to do that?" It was evident that Stafford was buying the entire line, without querying a thing. "Nobody's listening to me. Sooner or later, she'll start turning people into zombies on the quiet until there's too many of them to fight. I'm wondering if she isn't down in the sewers or something right now, building her army on the quiet."

"That's a very real concern," Thomas agreed solemnly. Producing a digital recorder, he pressed the button to start it running. "Now, if you could give me every detail of what happened in the hospital that night, we can put a stop to it before it goes any further than it has."

In the other timeline, he relaxed back into his expensive recliner and prepared for the long haul. Cup of coffee at elbow, pencil and paper at hand, phone on silent, no other distractions. This was likely to be the most momentous interview of his life, to date.

Stafford took a deep breath. "Okay, so we had these two cases come in, one after the other. A black girl and an older guy, totally separate. They were both pretty badly hurt, and they coded before they could be properly prepped for surgery. Pretty sad, but that's the sort of thing that happens in a hospital. Especially in Brockton Bay, am I right?" He paused, and Thomas nodded encouragingly. "Anyway, I was passing by the morgue a little while later and I heard raised voices. So I stick my head in, and this one girl is standing there with eyesockets all black like a skull, and the two people I knew were dead, standing up, still beat all to shit. So then I …"

<><>​

Ten Minutes Later

It was amazing how persuasive a sympathetic ear could be. Thomas was already aware of the psychological effects of alternating shunning with a deliberately friendly approach (the classic 'good cop/bad cop' ploy worked for a reason), but this was still an impressively effective demonstration. Stafford was spilling all the beans.

"And the black girl, her name was Sophia, correct?" he asked, double-checking his notes in the other timeline.

"Uh, yeah," Stafford agreed. "The skull-eyed girl said her name, and so did the older guy." He frowned. "Oh, yeah, she's a cape too. She said she was Shadow Stalker. And she went kinda ghostly when she came at me the first time. I thought that was just her being dead, but maybe not."

"Really." This was very important information. Stafford hadn't bothered mentioning it, the first time through. "Is there anything else you remember?"

Stafford frowned. "Um, skull girl can fix injuries on her zombies? The old guy said she … wait, he said her name. Tammy … something like that. Maybe Talia? Starts with T, anyway. Oh, and he's her dad."

"Good, good." Thomas made a keep going gesture. "You didn't get his name, did you?"

"No." Stafford shook his head. "I'm pretty sure nobody said it. And when I came back with the PRT guys, everyone just clammed up and didn't say anything about their names."

In the other timeline, Thomas looked his notes over then ran the back end of his pencil over his lips, thinking.

"I'm sure they did. Let's get back to why they were all in the hospital at the same time. You said that the skull-eyed girl came in with Shadow Stalker, and she was beat up as well? And then her father came in more or less at the same time?" It seemed rather a stretch for a coincidence, to say the least.

"Yeah. Not sure what's going on with that, either."

Thomas found it a mystery as well, but it wasn't his problem. Getting the unnamed girl under his control, where she could revive any of his men who died in his service? That was his problem.

His first order of business was to find out all he could about her. Which, almost by necessity, would start with her name. "All of this very useful," he said, sitting forward. "But it's not quite enough. Rodney; do you know where the medical report on the incident you described could be accessed?"

Stafford shrugged. "Uh, sure, but why?"

"Well, I'm going to need a copy," Thomas explained. "But the PRT needs to jump through hoops to legally access that information, and I'm almost certain we don't have the time. We need someone with the clearance to get in there, and who knows what they're looking at, to acquire it. Lives depend on it."

As expected, the clichéd phrases awoke a spark of determination in his patsy's eyes. "You can count on me, sir!"

Thomas smiled. "Good."

It would require him to run this timeline in parallel for a few more days, but once he had the file in his hands and the contents transcribed into the safe timeline, he could drop the instance where he'd contacted the idiot Stafford. To everyone but him, it never would have happened.

I love being me.

<><>​

Taylor

I stayed out of the shadow realm as we drove slowly through the streets of Brockton Bay, windows rolled down to listen for signs of trouble. This was partly to keep my boosting ability 'charged up' and partly to make sure nobody could see my glowing eyes. The glow itself was bizarre; it looked like normal light, and registered on cameras and eyesight perfectly well, but never shed light on anything else.

"Stop!" Sophia said suddenly. "I think I just heard something."

Dad was already pulling over before she finished the second sentence. He parked the car and killed the engine, and Sophia ghosted out through the car door instead of just opening it. Pulling my veil down over my face—we'd gone with a 'reverse bride' look—I got out on my side. Acting on a hunch, I dropped into the shadow realm to give Sophia what measure of boost I could.

She immediately pointed at the entrance to an alleyway. "Down there," she said.

Dad and I didn't argue. Even though most sounds in the shadow realm were hollow and echoing to my perceptions, I heard the cry of pain when it came next; from the way Dad's head came up, so did he. "Give me the keys," I said to Dad. "I'll lock the car and follow on."

"Good idea," he replied, and tossed me the keyset. Although they became translucent when they left his hand, I caught them anyway. Winding up all four windows was a little bit of a chore, but it was better than coming back and finding the car ransacked.

Being in the shadow realm was very useful for keeping track of the other two, even when they passed behind buildings. Once I had the car locked, I hustled after them. It wasn't hard to catch up; in the shadow realm, I was stronger and faster as well.

As I was heading down the alley, two men came running toward me. I tensed, but they just moved to pass me, panting with exertion. One was holding his ribs. I didn't know who they were and I didn't care, just so long as they didn't get in my way.

When I got to where Dad and Sophia were, which was the middle of a narrow side-street, things were just beginning to get interesting. Overall, there were ten people up against Dad and Sophia, though five had gone down while I was getting there. The trouble was, I could see all the people but I didn't know exactly what was going on.

"There's another one," called out one of our adversaries, pointing. The glow around his head, as bright as it was, seemed to flicker every few seconds. What that was about, I had no idea. "What the fuck are you supposed to be?"

"Ahh, Animator, just in time," Dad said smoothly. "It seems the Empire Eighty-Eight decided to hold an initiation for some of their members. This is no longer going to happen. They get to learn what it's like when people hit back."

"Yeah, well, fuck you." The voice was that of a woman, but it was rough and ragged. I could see something weird around that person's head, and they carried a couple of what looked like bladed weapons. "What they get to learn is what happens to assholes who mess with the Empire."

"Yeah, yeah, bring it, Cricket," Sophia retorted. "I'm gonna squash you like the bug you are."

"You three," ordered the guy with the flickering glow. "Get the girl. I got the moron in the top hat."

"I'm pretty sure you just heard me called Animator," I said. "Are you deaf or just an asshole?"

"Probably both," Sophia snarked. "Cricket and Alabaster were always C-listers anyw—" She cut herself off as they surged to attack.

Well, at least I knew who we were up against now. I'd heard of Cricket, and the rumour about Alabaster was that he couldn't be killed. Which was fine; I had no intention of killing either one. Not least because there was no way I was going to raise them, and casual murder is never going to be my style.

Cricket went for Sophia, probably because of the 'C-lister' jab, while the three normals still on their feet headed for me and Alabaster closed with Dad. I could see a chain, an axe handle and an iron pipe in the hands of my adversaries, which could be a problem. On the upside, I'd gone through a torture session at the hands of the Merchants, so a few bruises weren't going to match up to that.

Chain guy got to me first and swung his chain at my head. Reaching up with my free hand, I grabbed the chain and let it wrap around my wrist, then flicked open the baton and broke his wrist with it. I had to say, it took a lot less effort than hitting it with my hand. His scream, already high-pitched, reached entirely new octaves when I followed up with a kick to the groin. Letting go of the chain, he crumpled to the ground.

Iron pipe guy was next. He was predictably hesitant after how quickly I'd dealt with his buddy with the chain, but he stepped in and swung anyway. I blocked it with my chain-wrapped wrist, then swung the baton at his arm, hitting him around the elbow region. Bone splintered, clearly visible to my shadow-realm vision; before he had a chance to voice his unhappiness, I kicked him hard under the kneecap with my heavy boot. The iron pipe hit the ground at about the same time as he did.

"Next?" I asked, and axe-handle guy hesitated. This gave me the chance to see how the others were doing.

Dad was holding his own with Alabaster; or rather, he was taking his opponent's hits and smacking him back just as hard. Every time he broke a bone or did some other injury, though, it would be fixed in just a few seconds, when the flicker happened. But this was the benefit of being dead. He could soak up all the damage and still be fine when I got to him.

Sophia was doing somewhat better against Cricket. Smoothly going in and out of her ghost-like form, she was avoiding the bladed weapons and landing the occasional hit with power and fluidity. Cricket, on the other hand, seemed to be getting more and more irritated that Sophia was still in the fight.

Finally, axe-handle guy got up the nerve and swung his weapon two-handed down at me. I reached up and caught it with one hand, then twisted it out of his grip as part of the same move. He stared at his hands, as though wondering where his weapon had gotten to, then looked at me … and bolted.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Cricket disengaged from Sophia and cartwheeled in my direction. I felt a ringing in my ears and staggered sideways, just in time for Cricket to snake her arm around my throat from behind. A razor-edged blade touched the underside of my jaw. "Surrender, you fucks, or the Goth bitch gets it!"

As the dizziness wore off, I berated myself for getting too close and allowing this piece of shit Empire cape to actually fucking take me hostage. Briefly, I considered trying to slide the baton up between the blade and my neck, but I was pretty sure her arm was in my way. Worse, I was starting to get the initial flickers that preceded me having to drop out of the shadow realm.

Worst. Timing. Ever.

"Animator!" shouted Dad. "Let her go, now!"

"Yeah!" Sophia added. "Come back here and fight like a person, not like a fucking coward!"

"Fair fights are for pussies," Cricket sneered. "Hands behind your heads or this one's fucking dead. Last warning. Gonna count to five. One … two … three …"

My power was shouting in my ear, and I finally slowed down my racing thoughts enough to listen. There was one more thing I could do. It had never happened before, because I'd never had the option or the reason to.

I clamped my hand on her arm, and said, "Five."

And then … I pulled the energy out of her, into me.

She was strong and vital, and had endurance for days. I took it all except for the last final sip, leaving enough for her to survive and recuperate from, but certainly not enough to stay conscious on. Her hand opened and she dropped the weapon, then she slumped to the ground behind me as the metal blade clattered to the pavement.

"Whoaaa …" breathed Sophia. "I felt that. She dead?"

"Nope," I said flippantly. "But she's gonna feel it in the morning."

"What the fuck did you do?" bellowed Alabaster. Ignoring Dad's attempt to stop him, he bulled straight past Sophia and came for me in a raging charge. "I'm gonna—"

Taking him by the arm, I flipped him over my shoulder and slammed him to the ground beside Cricket's semi-comatose form. Then I moved my hand until I had hold of his bare wrist. It only took a few seconds for him to recover, but those few seconds were far too long. Taking a deep breath, I began to draw on his energy.

His limitless, limitless energy.

Where Cricket had been a glass of chilled water in the desert, or a steaming cup of cocoa on a chilly winter morning—filling and satisfying, but enough—Alabaster was a feast. An all-you-could-eat buffet, as far as the eye could see.

I had only been skimming off the top of my power when I went into the shadow realm, because I was only able to recuperate to a certain point with my own resources. But now I was discovering that a vast empty void existed below that, one I could fill with the life energy of others.

Oh, look. A volunteer.

The longer I drew on Alabaster's life energy, the more I wondered if it was truly limitless. I didn't care; I could feel my own aches and pains fading away, and a strength I'd never before known filled me from top to toe. Skills I was untrained in whipped by, fleetingly visible in my mind's eye then gone again. And yet, there was more to drain.

I had no idea whether it was seconds, minutes or hours before I felt the flow beginning to slacken. My power certainly felt bloated; it had gorged itself on the equivalent of hundreds or even thousands of ordinary 'meals' like Cricket had provided. Alabaster's glow was still strong, but the flicker was starting to stutter and miss. I didn't want to kill him outright even though he was a criminal and a murderer, so I decided to drain him down as I had with his teammate, and allow them to recuperate in their own time.

And then I noticed he wasn't flickering anymore. I let up on the draining, and after about fifteen seconds he flickered again, but not until then. Then I resumed the draining, and he stopped flickering again.

On a hunch, I swung my baton—with the strength that suffused me, it took no effort at all—and snapped his forearm like a twig, both bones. After a few more seconds, I stopped the draining and dropped his arm. He lay there, unmoving but alive. Fifteen more seconds passed. His glow flickered … but his arm remained broken.

"Jesus Christ," murmured Sophia, as I shook the chain loose from my wrist and let it drop to the ground. "Is this what being high feels like? Because I think I'm high."

"I think we're just as powered up as we can get," Dad said, but he also seemed to be a little spaced out. "Let's secure them and call the PRT."

"Good idea," I agreed. Reaching out, I gave him a healing boost, then followed on with one for Sophia. Despite the beating he'd been taking from Alabaster, it took no effort at all to bring him back to fully-repaired condition.

Accepting a bunch of zip-ties from Sophia, he crouched beside Alabaster and began fastening the man's wrists and ankles. Sophia did the same for Cricket, while I watched out for any party-crashers. Standing up, Dad hoisted Alabaster over his shoulder with ease; I got the impression that he could've thrown the Nazi thug down the street one-handed.

As we headed back toward the car, Sophia frowned. Pausing, she used her free hand to check her neck. "Is it just me, or do I have a pulse right now?"

"What?" I stared at her, and then at Dad. They both appeared normal in my shadow-realm vision. "Let me see that."

"Sure," she said, and proffered her wrist. "Put your fingers just down below where the thumb is."

I did as she showed me and sure enough, I felt a steady heartbeat. Her skin was warmer than before, too.

"Wait." Dad dropped Alabaster unceremoniously on the footpath across from where we'd left the car. Carefully, he checked his own pulse. "Are we … alive again?"

As much as I wanted it to be so, I grimaced and shook my head. "Sorry. You don't look like other living people. I'm pretty sure the excess energy I just stole off Alabaster is letting my power push you all the way to full appearance of life. When enough of it drains away, your heartbeats will stop and you'll lose body heat again."

Sophia dumped Cricket's unconscious body on top of Alabaster's. "So, does this mean that we get to beat up Alabaster on a weekly basis, just so we can pretend to be normal? Because I'm totes down with that."

I grinned. "Sounds like a plan."



End of Part Eleven

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Twelve: Revelations

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: I apologise for how late this chapter is coming out. The month has been horrendous.]

[A/N 3: The Empire Eighty-Eight will be espousing racist ideas and slurs in this fic. The author does not share these views.]



Taylor

I unlocked the back door and stepped inside, just as the clock in the living room chimed. "See? Made it home by eleven."

"Barely," Dad said dryly. "Now, of the two of us, you still need to sleep. You'd best get to that, young lady. I'd really rather not have to come out to the school and pretend to ask you why you're falling asleep in class."

"Right." I rolled my eyes. "With the energy I took from Alabaster, I feel like I could keep going for forty-eight hours straight. How do you feel?"

"Like I could bench-press the Forsberg Gallery one-handed," he admitted. "I don't think I've ever seen Sophia skip before."

"Neither have I." I grinned. "When she comes down off the rush you two got out of that, she's going to be so damn embarrassed."

He nodded in agreement. "Did you know you could do that before, or was it something you weren't aware of?"

"I don't really think I was close to any capes before, I mean ones who weren't dead." Plus, Cricket had been kind of threatening me, and I'd been running on fumes at the time. "So, the knowledge was there, but not really obvious. If that makes sense."

"I'm not a cape, so I don't know what makes sense and what doesn't." He paused. "Wait, so you can only draw from capes?"

That was a question I hadn't actually considered before, so I looked inward, querying my power. "I think … I get a lot more energy out of capes. Baseline humans can be tapped, but there's less there to draw on."

He looked thoughtful. "So you do tap their powers for energy, even when they aren't like Alabaster?"

"I guess so." I hadn't really thought it through like that. "Huh. I hope they don't figure it out. It would utterly suck to have all the capes run away from me or blast me from range."

Dad nodded soberly. "Yeah, that's definitely something you'll want to keep under wraps." He nodded toward the entrance hall and the stairs within. "But you still need to get some sleep before school."

"Sure, okay." I headed upstairs, marvelling at the energy that seemed to fill me to the brim. It took a conscious effort to drop out of the shadow realm, which brought me back to normal human levels of fatigue; hopefully I'd stay that way when I was asleep. Having to wake up just so I could make myself tired again struck me as a long and boring way to spend a night.

After a brief shower, I sat down in front of my computer with my hair up in a towel. Dad had told me to go to bed, sure, but I just wanted to check PHO and see what they were saying about our totally badass capture of Cricket and Alabaster.

To my mild disappointment, not many people were talking about it. The usual Guy in the Know, Bagrat, hadn't weighed in yet, which probably meant very few people knew about it. I considered making a post, but decided to leave it until morning. As Animator, I didn't want to come across as someone who blew their own horn.

It was really, really tempting, though.

I was just about to log off when I noticed that I'd been pinged with a private message. When I opened it, it was from Officer Lagos.

Hi,

What the hell did you do? I was just reading, and then it felt like I'd stuck my finger in an electrical socket, but in a good way. Was this what you meant when you said I might feel some energy boosts? I'm pretty sure I've got a pulse again now, and I'm so juiced up I feel like going for a ten mile sprint. Am I alive again? What's going on?

Kenny

I sighed. Discovering the energy draw power was a good thing, but now I was going to have to pull the rug out from under the poor guy.

Hey.

Sorry about that. It was kind of an unexpected incident. It should happen again, but not so dramatically as this time. The extra energy you feel should bleed off in time. And I'm sorry to say this, but you're still deceased. The energy's just making you look and feel a lot more lifelike. That'll probably go away too as the excess drains away.

Sorry again,

Animator

After shutting the computer down, I climbed into bed. Hopefully, staying out of the shadow realm would keep it from depleting while I slept. I also hoped that Officer Lagos would understand why I couldn't keep him powered up all the time.

Having powers, I mused sleepily, was a whole lot more complicated than Saturday morning cartoons let on.

<><>​

Brockton Bay General Hospital

Rodney Stafford

The butterflies breeding in Rodney's stomach were beginning to assume the proportions of B-52 bombers. He was totally aware that what he was planning to do broke many hospital regulations and several actual laws, but it was also what needed to be done. The zombie maker had to be stopped, and if Doctor Cartwright and the PRT couldn't see that, then it was up to Rodney. Mr Calvert, and Brockton Bay, were depending on him.

Dressed in his darkest clothing, with a baseball cap pulled low down over his forehead, he sidled up to the unassuming doorway. This entrance wasn't used a lot, so hopefully the night security shift wouldn't be watching the cameras too closely.

As he pulled out his swipe card and turned it around to make sure the magnetic strip faced the right way, he took a deep breath. This didn't alleviate the tension in his guts even a little bit. How movie secret agents made it through even one mission without getting terminal ulcers, he had no idea.

He was pretty sure the card-swipes were recorded somewhere, but nobody had ever mentioned anything about them being monitored, so he figured he was safe there. Hopefully, by the time this got back to him, Mr Calvert would've gotten to the bottom of the zombie thing, so he'd be exonerated. In fact, he would be a hero. Mr Calvert had assured him of this.

With an almost spasmodic motion, he swiped the card through the reader. Time seemed to stretch endlessly … and then the light turned green, the reader beeped agreeably, and the door clicked open. He hesitated almost long enough for the door to lock itself again, but grabbed it in time and yanked it open, then ducked inside.

Brockton Bay General wasn't modern enough to have automatic motion sensor light switches, or maybe the administration was too cheap to install them. The upside of this was that he could sneak through the hospital without leaving an obvious trail of where he was going. He was actually okay with the lack of lighting, because he knew his way around well enough not to need it.

However, a dark-clad figure lurking within the hospital would be hard to explain away to any roving security guards—they were dumb, but they weren't that dumb—so he ducked into a handy maintenance closet. There, he pulled off the dark outer clothing, leaving the scrubs he was wearing under them in plain view. As an afterthought, he transferred his phone, car keys and wallet from the dark sweat pants to his scrubs. He couldn't wear the cap, but he did have a hair cover, resembling a shower cap, to put on in its place. The last thing he needed, a clipboard, he found hanging on the wall near the door.

Thus disguised (was it a disguise, he wondered, to pretend to be the very thing that you were?) he strode confidently through the hospital. Armed with the clipboard, he walked straight past a nurse station; the nurse barely glanced up from the book she was reading. Wearing scrubs and a lanyard, carrying a clipboard, he may as well have been invisible.

Next, he needed to find an unattended terminal to get into the system with. The hospital admin would've all gone home for the night, but their computers tended to be password-locked, and he didn't have those passwords. What he needed was a general-use terminal that didn't have a bored nurse sitting near it. Bored nurses were perhaps the nosiest people on Earth, and if a mere intern sat down at a terminal and started using it, he would have someone peering over his shoulder in less than a minute.

The trouble was, none of the empty wards had terminals in them, and none of the terminals in the occupied wards were unattended. Careful not to pass by any nurse station twice in quick succession, so as not to arouse the curiosity of an aforementioned bored nurse, he scouted through the corridors, looking for somewhere he could log on and get what he needed.

Finally, in desperation, he slunk through to the admin wing. A passworded terminal was better than no terminal at all, and he had one final potential solution up his sleeve. He just had to hope that pop culture was right about one more thing.

Moving as quietly as he knew how—an intern with a clipboard didn't look out of place among the patients, but he was certainly not where he was supposed to be, here—he snuck down the corridor, testing door-handles as he went. "Come on," he muttered. "Come on …"

In the distance, he heard heavy boot-steps, echoing along the hallways. A distant splash of light, reflected from worn vinyl and faded paint, presaged the approach of a security guard. There was nowhere for him to hide. Frantically, he jiggled door handles—until suddenly, one opened. Tumbling through into the office beyond, he realised that the light was still on. Panicking, he stared at the desk before he registered that it was empty.

Oh. They just packed up and went home, and didn't even lock their door.

Stupid of them, lucky for me.

Carefully, he closed the door behind him, then turned the little knob that locked it from the outside. Finally, he hit the light switch, so the patrolling guard wouldn't even see the line of light under the door. He'd heard guards gossiping between themselves about administrators who did just this, relying on security to lock their offices for them, but this was the first time he'd actually learned it was true.

What did that one guy say? The definition of an administrator is someone who's smart enough to require a lock on his office door, but still needs security to lock it for him.

The footsteps were closer now. Had the guard seen the flare of light from the open door? He dared not move. Holding his mouth open, he breathed as silently as he knew how.

Steadily, the footsteps approached. He jumped violently as the door handle rattled. But the footsteps never paused; the guard just kept going. Lucky I locked it.

Feeling the sweat drying on his forehead below the hair-cover, he waited until he could no longer hear the footsteps, and his heartbeat had gone back to something approaching normality. Then he snuck around behind the desk.

It was too much to ask that they'd also left their computer open and ready to use. When he wriggled the mouse, it popped up with the hospital's logo and a password request.

He knew enough to not try random passwords; after six attempts, the terminal would lock down and a message would automatically be sent to security. But he still had his other option, which was looking better all the time. Unfortunately, it entailed a bit of risk, but that was unavoidable if he was going to get the information Mr Calvert needed.

Getting up from the desk, he snuck over to the door, cracked it open, and peered out into the dark corridor. Holding his breath, he listened for several long seconds. No footsteps, no shouts. Nothing except the thumping of blood in his ears.

He closed the door, then flipped the light switch. Going back to the desk, he started checking for sticky notes. If whoever owned this office was absent-minded enough to leave the lights on and door unlocked when they went home for the day, he reasoned, then they'd most likely write down their password and leave it near the terminal … assuming pop culture was correct, of course.

It took him thirty seconds.

Eyes flicking back and forth between the keyboard and the note he'd found half-under the mouse pad, he tapped in the password, then hit Enter. The screen cleared, then came up with the usual screen he'd seen every time he logged in.

Jumping up, he headed over to the door and turned off the lights, then returned to the desk. The last thing he wanted was for the security guard to return and wonder why there was a light on under the door when it had previously been dark. He might not, but Rodney wasn't willing to risk the fate of the world on 'might not'.

Now that he was in the system, his next job was to find the correct information. He sat back in the chair for a moment, recalling exactly when all this had happened; not just the date, but the time of night. Finally, when he figured he had it right, he navigated back through previous intakes to the right day and time, and started checking file by file.

People came into the hospital all the time, and more than a few died. It was the nature of serious injuries; sometimes the people died, sometimes they lived. Photos would've been handy for quicker identification, but all he had were half-remembered names and causes of death.

It took him much longer than he was comfortable with before he stumbled on Sophia Hess. At first, he'd glanced past her file because it wasn't marked as a death. Cartwright, that interfering asshole, had doctored the paperwork and marked it, 'further treatment recommended'. But her name was Sophia, she was a teenage girl, and the noted injuries matched what he recalled.

With that knowledge in mind, it took him less time to find Danny and Taylor Hebert—I knew her name started with T!—the father and daughter who'd also been there. Or rather, the other zombie and the zombie maker. The gang member she'd also raised as a zombie but had failed to keep active or something was listed as DOA, but Rodney wasn't so sure about that. What if he gets up again?

Rodney selected the four files and sent them to the printer in the corner of the office. Then he used his phone to take photos of all four and emailed the photos to himself. There was no way in hell he was going to let bureaucracy win this time. This information was going to get out if he had to tell Mr Calvert how to get into his emails with his one phone call from jail.

After deleting the photos from his phone—there was no sense in leaving clues to what he'd done—he backed out of the search then shut the terminal down. Finally, he retrieved the pages from the printer and clipped them in behind the pages on the clipboard he'd 'borrowed'. Okay, now it's time to get this information to Mr Calvert.

He was just heading for the door when he heard the jingle of keys from outside and the rattle of the door handle. Shit, shit, shit, how did they know?

That didn't matter. It was something he could worry about later. What he had to worry about right now was getting past the guard. For all his previous bravado about saving the world by calling Mr Calvert from jail, he had no illusions about his personal toughness. His occupation, once he entered the correctional system, was likely to be best described as 'prison bitch'.

Backing up, he ran into a visitor's chair with his butt. This gave him a desperate idea. He tucked the clipboard under his arm and picked up the chair, then backed up a little more.

As the door opened, he could hear what the guard was saying on the radio as the flashlight beam swept across the office. "Lights are off, doesn't look like—what the fuck?"

That was when Rodney charged him, using the chair as a battering ram. They collided heavily, but Rodney had been set for it while the guard had been caught on the back foot. Together, they spilled out into the corridor, and the guard landed heavily on his ass. Rodney dropped the chair and ran for it, clutching the clipboard like a lifeline.

He wasn't a runner—and in fact, hadn't run any distance for quite some time—but adrenaline was a fine inducement, and he actually managed to get to the corner before the guard got his feet under him. The guard's voice, alternating between calls for backup and threats of ever-increasing violence when he caught the interloper, spurred Rodney on as he panted and sweated and felt like his lungs were about to seize up.

Fortunately, he knew the layout of the hospital well enough to locate the nearest set of fire stairs. Stumbling down them, he clung to the railing for dear life, hoping his legs wouldn't give out before he got to the bottom. He was almost there when the door at the top opened; he kept his head down, hoping the guard wouldn't recognise him from the back, and scuttled down the remaining steps.

"Come back here!" The guard's voice reverberated through the stairwell, but Rodney was done taking orders.

He hit the fire door leading outside with his hand, and kept stumbling on. While he hadn't parked his car in any of the hospital parking lots—he wasn't an idiot—it was still around the far side of the complex from where he'd come out, which meant he had a long walk in front of him. Setting off into the darkness, he held tight to the precious clipboard.

I succeeded, he told himself. I got it. They'd catch up with him eventually, but by then the apocalypse would've been averted. He would be a bona fide hero.

I just saved the fucking world.

<><>​

Kaiser

"Tell me again."

Max had heard what the mook had to say twice now, but he was still having trouble putting it together in his head. Cricket was good at what she did, even against someone like Shadow Stalker, and Alabaster was virtually unstoppable. Two new capes and a punk kid should not have posed a serious threat to them, much less beaten up nine guys and captured the pair of them like chumps.

"W-we were setting up the initiation," stammered the idiot. "One of the little shits screamed, then the lookout said capes were coming. It was Shadow Stalker and a tall asshole in a top hat and long coat, some kind of Brute. I saw him knocking guys out with one punch. The bitch in the veil was stupid strong too. Ripped the axe handle clear out of my hands."

"Yes, yes, I got that already." Max gestured impatiently. "Get to the part where Cricket and Alabaster were captured." Already in his mind, he was figuring out how to spring them from PRT holding. They weren't the biggest powerhouses in the Empire, but they were definitely useful.

"I—I didn't see 'em get taken down." The guy was nervous, which wasn't surprising given the fact that both Max and Hookwolf were both paying him close and personal attention. "I hid down the street and watched. The capes came out in about one minute with Cricket and Alabaster. Cricket was barely there, like she didn't know which way was up. Alabaster was even worse. He couldn't even stand up by himself." He paused. "And there was something wrong with his arm."

"His arm?" Kaiser wrenched his thoughts away from how ridiculous it was that any kind of hit could put Alabaster down for more than four and a half seconds. "You didn't mention that before."

"When the PRT got there, they did something with his arm. I thought they were cuffing him, but now I'm pretty sure they were putting an inflatable cast on him."

Max shared a gaze of mutual incomprehension with Hookwolf. Why in God's name would Alabaster of all people need a cast on his arm?

"You're sure it was Alabaster?" Hookwolf prompted. "It wasn't someone else wearing the same clothes or something?"

"Totally sure." The mook spread his hands. "There was a streetlight and everything. Nobody else in this city's got skin that white."

Max nodded to acknowledge the point. The story had basically been the same in every iteration, except for the detail of the supposedly broken arm, which (unbelievable as it was) didn't actually contradict anything else. Of course, all the relevant details were just plain bullshit. Cricket had been a cage fighter, and she could take a hit and come up swinging. Alabaster just plain didn't stay down. And his bones definitely didn't stay broken.

"Understood," Max said. "Now, you don't tell anyone about this. At all. Ever. Got it?"

Hookwolf clenched his fist and a long, jagged blade grew out from between his knuckles, a silent promise as to what would happen if anything was said.

"Totally. Absolutely. Not a word." The guy was babbling now, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Won't say a thing."

Max believed him. "Leave us."

Hookwolf watched him go, then turned to Max once the door shut behind him. "We just gonna let him blab to everyone, the first time he gets a drink inside him? I coulda shut him up permanently."

"I was tempted," Max replied honestly, "but one thing my father always drummed into me was 'never shoot the messenger'. If your people are too scared to bring bad news to you, you never hear about the things you need to hear about until it's too late."

"Hm." Hookwolf frowned. It was clear that he wanted to argue, but didn't know what to say. "Okay, fuck it. He talks, it's on you."

Max chuckled mirthlessly. "It's always on me. It always has been. So what's going on, do you think? Some kind of Breaker or Master effect that's forcing them in to stay in a catatonic state? Or a Trump, suppressing their powers?"

"Maybe," grunted Hookwolf. "Can't know for sure until we bust 'em out and see for ourselves."

"True. So, how do you suggest we handle the situation?" He would make his own mind up, of course, but the point of having lieutenants was to get an outside point of view.

"What, for busting them out or dealing with the assholes who fucked with them?"

"The capes. I'll work out the details of freeing Cricket and Alabaster from the PRT." He didn't have any outright moles in the organisation yet, but there were some people within it who shared points of view with the Empire. Asked the right questions in the right ways, they could get him the information he needed to organise matters.

"We set a trap." Hookwolf's expression was ugly. "They want to fuck with our initiations? We do another one, make it loud and proud. When they come after that one, we land on 'em with both feet." From the way shards of razor-edged metal slid out from under his skin, he didn't intend to stop with his feet.

Max nodded sagely, as though he'd just been waiting for Hookwolf to suggest exactly that. In all honesty, he hadn't considered doing it that way, but it didn't matter. If it worked, it worked. "Excellent. Set it up, and let me know how it turns out."

Hookwolf grinned savagely. Max got the impression he was really going to enjoy this. "You got it."

<><>​

PRT Building

Deputy Director Renick's Office

"Lay it out for me," Paul ordered. "Best case, worst case, most probable case. What are we looking at, here?"

Miss Militia took a deep breath. "Best case we can hope for is that we can keep a lid on this and recruit Animator into the Protectorate, along with her cohorts. Worst case, it gets out and every villain cape out there goes after her with blood in their eye, because nobody wants a cape out there who can even temporarily suspend their powers. Most probable …" She paused. "We aren't likely to be able to recruit her unless there is a serious attempt to kill her, and that spooks her into our ranks. And unless she starts raising people all over, who's going to believe she can really bring back the dead?"

Paul nodded to acknowledge her analysis, then looked at Assault. "Do you concur?"

Assault ran his hand over his mouth, rubbing his lips with the side of his finger. "Pretty much, yeah. I know I'm not going to be shaking hands with Animator any time soon. She wrecked them, and the ramifications of Alabaster's broken arm are even more terrifying than facing her in a fight."

Miss Militia nodded. "She could've killed him, both of them, but she chose not to. That's the only good thing in all this. Apart from the fact that we've got two killers off the streets for the moment."

"That's true." Paul didn't address the point about Alabaster's arm. That was something he would gladly pass on to Emily in the morning, and let her deal with. Given her dislike of capes, it was even odds whether she'd think it was a good thing or a bad thing. "The Empire has broken Hookwolf out of Birdcage transports before. Do you think they're likely to try to spring Alabaster and Cricket from holding?"

Assault grimaced. "Almost certainly. Kaiser's both a proud man and a total asshole. He'd consider this an insult to the Empire, and he'd work to get them out. Not because he cares about them, but because he cares about the optics of the situation."

Miss Militia cleared her throat. "Yes and no. Yes, he's a proud man. Yes, he cares about the optics. But breaking out Cricket and Alabaster is going to take resources. While he's mustering those, there's something else he's going to be doing."

"Animator," Paul said. "He'll be going after Animator."

The scarf over Miss Militia's face hid most of her expression, but the resigned tone of her voice made up for it. "I'd bet my power on it."

Assault let out a soundless whistle. "Well, let's hope they're watching their backs."

Amen, agreed Paul.

<><>​

Coil

Well, that's interesting.

Thomas couldn't wait to hear back from Rodney Stafford regarding the success (or otherwise) of his foray into Brockton General. In the worst case, of course, he would've been intercepted and interrogated. Thomas held zero faith in the ability of the wayward intern to hold out against questioning; his own name would be under scrutiny in short order.

This was, of course, why he was holding back from dropping the other timeline. Once Stafford succeeded in getting the information back to him, the whole incident would never have happened. Animator and her father would have zero warning that he was on their trail.

But in the meantime, he'd picked up a lead on something new. Specifically, gossip had reached his eyes and ears in the BBPD that one of their own had perished due to gang violence near the Lord Street Markets … and he'd been brought back to life by Animator. He was currently on paid leave, so the whisper went, while the higher-ups tried to figure out whether or not having a dead cop walking around and drawing a wage was a good thing for the department.

I think I need to meet this Officer Lagos. An interview under the vague umbrella of 'PRT business' would answer many of his questions about what actually happened to people who were 'animated', and how hard they were to put down for good after the effect took hold.

It would probably be best, he decided, to make that visit in the timeline where he wasn't waiting for Rodney Stafford to contact him after the hospital infiltration. If anyone queried him about his interest in the matter, he was a consultant for the PRT, and coming back from the dead was surely a subject of interest for them. The PRT didn't need to know that if the information was favourable, he would also be doing his best to influence Animator to come work for him.

Thinkers were useful, certainly, and he would be looking out for the possibility of getting one or more to work for him once he had established himself as a person of influence in Brockton Bay, but the old saw about birds in the hand was as true as ever. If he could establish dominance over Animator, then having a bunch of men beholden to her for their very existence would be extremely useful indeed.

His head came up as a message pinged on his phone. Got it. Where do you want to meet?

Caution immediately intruded itself on his thought processes. This felt too quick, too easy. Without his power to act as a fallback, it was much harder to avoid a potential trap if Stafford had been grabbed and flipped.

Tomorrow at noon, he typed, then gave the address of a sidewalk café in the city. Any BBPD or PRT assets would find it hard to hang around for long without giving themselves away, and he'd have time to survey the situation and sheer off if things looked hinky. At the same time, in the safe timeline, he could be having his perfectly innocuous chat with Officer Lagos, and gathering information from that side too.

Mentally, he gave himself a pat on the back. Within twenty-four hours, he'd have the information he needed in hand, and be ready to advance to the next step in his plan.

<><>​

Next Morning

Taylor

The smell of cooking breakfast wafted across my nose as I trotted downstairs. "Morning, Dad!" I called out.

"Morning," he replied. "How's the energy store? Still plenty of gas in the tank?"

"Let me see." I slipped into the shadow realm; everything immediately went translucent around me, and sounds became hollow echoes. I also felt amazingly energetic. "Yep, still there." From what I could tell, it hadn't notably diminished from last night.

"Yeah, I felt that from here." I heard the sound of the spatula scraping on the pan as I came through the living room. "So, do you think you're up for going to school today?"

I shrugged. "It's not like I've really got a choice, right?" Besides, Winslow was okay, if I ignored the gang presence. They ignored me in return, which suited us both. "Those fishermen's sunglasses you got allow me to wear my regular glasses and kind of conceal the darkness effect when I'm not in the shadow realm. You've contacted the school about me needing to wear them?"

He nodded. "I told them you'd strained your eyes and need to wear them. To be honest, they didn't seem overly interested. They didn't even ask for a doctor's note."

"Well, that's useful." I wasn't really being sarcastic. Getting a doctor's note to conceal a sudden case of super-powers was probably a lot easier for members of the Wards, so having the school not care was kind of a bonus, right then.

Not that I would've been totally averse to joining the Wards (if they'd have me; my power was kind of morbid) but that would probably involve the PRT wanting to poke and prod at Dad and Sophia to find out the limits of their revival. I was in no way a fan of that idea. Reanimating that gang asshole who'd helped kill Dad was about the limit of my willingness to experiment in that direction, and we'd found out what we needed to know.

We chatted over breakfast, and discovered that Dad enjoyed his food more if he was powered up at the time (though it was still nice if he wasn't). It was almost weird how normal it was, especially when he got in the car to go to work and I headed off down the street to catch the bus to school.

<><>​

Rodney

Notice of Disciplinary Hearing.

The email glared out at him from his laptop screen. He stared back at it, not quite daring to click on it. If he didn't open the email, he could plausibly claim not to know about it.

Things weren't supposed to have moved this quickly. He hadn't even gotten the information to Mr Calvert yet, and already they'd figured out that he was the one who'd gone into the hospital. What if they sent the police to his apartment? If they seized everything as evidence and didn't allow him a phone call, he'd never be able to get the information to Mr Calvert!

His apartment was supposed to be his sanctum sanctorum, his final redoubt. This was why he'd stocked it up for the long haul, and installed extra locks on the doors. But precautions that would let him evade zombies (or post-apocalyptic scavengers) wouldn't work against the cops; they'd just bring up a battering ram and bust the door in anyway.

They'd arrest me. For trying to actually save the whole city, the whole world, from a zombie plague.

How fair is that?

Muttering to himself, he dragged his bug-out bag out from under his bed, shoved a few extra tins of baked beans in there—he didn't really like them, but they kept more or less forever—and stuffed the printout from the hospital in on top. Then he zipped it up and heaved it onto his shoulder with a grunt.

Bug-out bags sounded cool, but he'd learned that if he tried to take everything he wanted, it was way too heavy. So, he'd had to compromise. It wasn't something he was pleased about, but he couldn't see a way around it either.

Halfway to the door, he realised he wouldn't get far without shoes. Fuck. He hated being rushed, because he forgot stuff or did it in the wrong order. Setting the bag down, he dragged his sneakers onto his feet, then hefted it again, went to the front door, and peered out. There was nobody in the corridor, but he didn't trust that to last very long. If I'm going to go, I have to go now.

For a long moment, he agonised over the laptop, then folded it, stuffed it into its case along with its cord, and picked it up with his spare hand. Edging out into the corridor, he locked the door behind him, then headed in the direction of the back stairs. If they were watching the front (which they might well be doing) he wanted to be well away before they kicked the front door in.

I just have to get this information to Mr Calvert. Then everyone will see I'm a hero. They might even give me a medal.

Hitching the bug-out bag higher on his shoulder and starting to regret the last few tins that he'd shoved in there, he trudged toward the exit.

<><>​

Hookwolf

"Okay, the plan is simple," Brad said. He was riding in the passenger seat of the van, mask off and sunglasses on, with the rest of the guys in the back. "We cruise around until we see a nigger or a slant or a spic or a rag-head on their own, and we grab him, but we make sure members of the public see it. Then we take him somewhere and the new guys do their thing. Stormtiger and me will be there to fuck up Animator and her asshole friends if they decide to make a move on us. Does anyone not understand this?" If anyone didn't understand it, he figured, they could get out and walk. Stopping the van was optional.

Gang initiations were serious business. New blood needed to be tested and gauged. Nobody wanted a pussy backing them up, and undercover cops were right out. He was pretty sure cops weren't allowed to kick the shit out of anyone as part of their cover, at least not seriously, so he never passed anyone until he'd seen them break ribs or crack somebody's skull.

Which meant that anyone messing with an initiation was messing with gang business. The whole master-race creed was something Brad could take or leave, but the Empire was all the family he had, and he believed in nobody fucking up family. Even over and above what they'd done to Cricket—whatever it was, it had to be pretty bad—these assholes were shitting on his people. Nobody pulled that sort of shit, not when he was around to do something about it.

One way or another, Animator was going to learn that.

<><>​

Taylor

"Hey, nice shades." Sophia grinned at me as I climbed the front steps of Winslow. "Got a dog or a white cane to go with them?"

I responded with the extremely mature expedient of flipping her the bird. "Oh, ha ha. I see you've been hanging around Dad far too long already, if you're stealing his jokes."

"Your dad's actually pretty cool, for an old guy." Sophia fell into step alongside me. "And I don't say that about many people."

I had to stop and think about that. Did I think of Dad as 'cool'? It was more like he was just there. Coolness or lack thereof didn't come into it. "Okay, sure, whatever you say."

"I do say." Her tone lowered and became more serious. "Oh, and just so you know, Julia and Madison are around here somewhere. They're still trying to get me to join their little posse."

"Right." I sighed. Madison was adorably cute and Julia more conventionally pretty, but they'd both gushed over Sophia's 'gorgeous hair' (okay, it was pretty nice) and 'supermodel looks' (again, she looked nice if she made the effort, but her class-A resting bitch face militated against that) in a blatantly transparent attempt to get her to join their clique. "Muscle, right?" We got to my locker and I pulled my backpack out of it.

She snorted. "What I'm thinking. That, or they're into tall, dark and brooding." Her tone made it clear that she was joking.

I raised my eyebrows in lieu of a smirk. Sophia, wise to my expressions, gave me a medium-dirty look.

"Well," I said, "that's always a possibility. Have you seen either of them giving you lingering, wistful stares?" I was quite proud of the way I kept my face straight while saying this.

Her elbow jab totally failed to connect, but not for want of trying. "Don't even joke about it," she growled. "My life is complicated enough right now without having to tell a couple of ninth-graders that I'm not interested in romance."

I shrugged. "You're a ninth-grader. Just saying."

"Not the point."

The bell for home room rang, and I raised my head. "See you at lunch?"

"Sure."

We headed off on our different trajectories, her for Math class and me for Spanish. I didn't care, so long as nobody messed with my glasses.

<><>​

Coil (Safe Timeline)

The first time he drove past Officer Lagos' apartment building, Thomas was checking the vehicles. He'd found out the licence plate of the cop's personal car, and ascertained for himself that it was still sitting out front. He's at home. Perfect.

Another sweep past, this time looking for a place to pull his own car over. It didn't bear any PRT markings, because a mere civilian consultant didn't rate such things. This was probably a good thing, because in this neighbourhood, anything resembling a cop car would likely get stripped to the chassis within a few hours, if parked overnight. Even in the daytime, it would get graffiti'd and the tyres slashed in the time it took to walk into a corner store and buy a paper.

Spotting a likely space a little way down the block, Thomas slowed down and grimaced at the way the van behind him got too close for his liking. He slowed some more and put on his indicators, to show that he was actually parking. The van backed off a little, giving him the chance to pull to a stop and start reversing. He wasn't a master at reverse parallel parking, but he figured he was good enough. The van didn't charge past him, but that was no longer his problem.

Finally situated in the parking space, he sighed with relief and killed the engine. His seat belt came off and he opened the door … and that was when the van came roaring up and screeched to a halt right next to his car. The side door slid open, and men jumped out.

What the fuck?

Before he could close and lock the door, strong hands dragged it open and he was wrenched from the car. He had just long enough to regret that he wasn't wearing the .38 Special that was currently residing in the glove compartment before his arms were forced behind him and zip-ties applied with far more force than finesse. Even as he started to shout for help, someone else dragged his head back and slapped a strip of duct tape across his mouth.

He was still trying to figure out what the fuck was going on—this sort of shit didn't happen to him!—as he was bundled into the back of the van. The side door slid shut; as if this had been a signal (which it was, in a way) the van's engine revved and it started off down the road at what promised to be an unsafe speed.

Looking around the interior of the van, he began to recognise gang tattoos and colours, and his heart sank. Empire Eighty-Eight.

Oh, fuck.



End of Part Twelve

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Thirteen: Luck is in the Eye of the Beholder

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: There will be racist terms and slurs used by members of the Empire Eighty-Eight. These views are not shared by the author.]

[A/N 3: This chapter kicked my ass. Ugh.]



Taylor

I was in the middle of taking notes about gendered nouns when Sophia opened the classroom door and leaned in. "Hey, Taylor. There's a problem."

Ms Hernandez looked around at the same time as I did. "Sophia Hess!" she scolded. "What are you doing out of class?"

"I'm here because there's a problem," Sophia reiterated. "And Taylor needs to come with me." She switched her focus to me. "Right now."

I was already shoving my books into my backpack. "Sorry," I said half-heartedly. "I just need to find out what's going on."

"Taylor, don't—" I tuned out the rest of what she was saying as I went out through the door.

Sophia pulled it closed and headed off down the hallway; I followed along. Without saying another word, she handed me one earpiece of a set of earphones. She already had the other earpiece in her own ear; as I put it in, she hit the call icon on her phone.

It rang exactly once. "Hello? Sophia? Is Taylor with you?" Once I heard Dad's voice, we kept moving. The last thing I wanted to do was get cornered by a teacher.

"Yeah, she's here," Sophia answered for the both of us. "Tell her what you told me."

He took a deep breath, audible over the phone. Some habits, it seemed, died hard. "Taylor, I just got a phone call from Dr Cartwright. You recall that idiot intern? Apparently, he accessed our medical files last night, all of them, and got copies. He's still at large, so we can't ask him who he's working for. But I need you two to find a safe place and hunker down until I come get you."

"I knew I should've smacked some sense into him." Sophia shook her head. "Asshole probably still thinks I'm a fuckin' zombie or something."

I was pretty sure it was against the law to access someone's medical files without their permission, but I also had the idea that whoever was behind this wasn't worried about legalities. "What do you think's going on? Who put him up to this?"

Dad sighed. "Best case, he's a moron who wants to take the information to the press to forestall the quote-unquote 'zombie apocalypse' before it happens. In which case, he's working alone, and only the most way-out supermarket tabloids will even listen to him. No reputable news service is going to actually publish information like that, for several reasons. Absolute best case, he goes to Brockton Nightly News or some other big-name media outlet and hands over all his material, and they just sit on it."

I knew that tone of voice. "But you don't think it's the best case, do you?"

"I do not. Worst case, the Empire's somehow added two and two together, and is looking for payback for Cricket and Alabaster."

I had kind of mauled them fairly harshly. Especially where it came to breaking Alabaster's arm. The trouble was, I couldn't really think of anything between best case and worst case. I doubted that the ABB would be interested in recruiting me, given that I wasn't Asian, but— "Oh, shit. I just thought of a third option. What if Lung's found out how I drained Alabaster and wants to take me out before I can do the same to him?"

"That's just as bad," Dad agreed. "I'm leaving the office now. Sophia, you need to—"

"—call my folks? Already done." Sophia actually looked worried. For all that she and her brother sniped at each other, she evidently cared for her family. "We'll see you when you get here."

"I'll be there as quick as I can." Dad ended the call.

I pulled the earphone out and gave it back to Sophia as we headed along the hallway. It occurred to me that we didn't have to hide anywhere esoteric, so much as we just had to get out of sight. It was a sure bet that the corrupt intern was working for one of the gangs, and there was no possible good reason for him to be passing our medical information on to them. Whichever gang it was, they probably had junior members in Winslow, which meant we couldn't afford to let anyone see us at all.

With that in mind, I pointed toward the stairs and we went up them two at a time, moving almost in lockstep. "Roof?" Sophia asked when we got to the third floor, hooking her thumb at the next flight of stairs.

I shook my head. "It would only take one person to check, and then we'd be trapped up there."

More specifically, I'd be trapped up there, but as Sophia's wellbeing was inextricably linked with mine, it would effectively doom both of us anyway. And Dad as well (plus Officer Lagos, though in fairness, right then we weren't really thinking about him).

Sophia eyed the nearest classroom door. "So how do we hide?"

Right about then, I had a brainwave. "We don't. We go down the corridor a ways, and when we hear someone coming upstairs, I go into the shadow realm so I can see through walls. Then we just play keep-away, get behind them, and hide where they've already looked."

She was already nodding. "And with the amount of power you got from Alabaster, we'll be able to kick ass if anyone actually finds us."

I grinned and high-fived her. "Got it in one."

<><>​

Detective Dana McAllister, BBPD

The door to Rodney Stafford's apartment opened easily enough to the building superintendent's key. Dana stood back while the uniformed officers entered, calling out for Stafford to come out with his hands up (if he was there, but it seemed much more likely that he wasn't). Once they'd cleared the apartment, she entered, looking around with a practiced eye.

She didn't have to be a detective to tell that it was a single man's apartment. Everything about it, from the dirty dishes in the sink to the haphazard nature of the cleaning, pointed toward someone who not only lived alone but who also did the bare minimum of housework. The fact that there were zero toiletries in the bathroom, even though there was a grime-free spot on the sink where they were probably kept, told her that a) he'd never shared the apartment with anyone, and b) he'd gone somewhere in a hurry, deliberately so.

"Okay, spread out," she said. "Start looking for anything that looks like medical records, or an indication of who he's actually working for." She still wasn't sure exactly why this case had hit the top of the pile so quickly, but it seemed that Brockton General took HIPAA violations by their interns really fucking seriously, if the number of markers being called in on this case was any indication.

"Ah … Detective?" That was Loncey, a uniform she'd worked with before. "Is it just me, or is this a crappy conspiracy board?"

Conspiracy boards were a good start toward motive, so she headed that way. Stafford had thumbtacked notes and sketches to the wall, then stretched string between them. Then he'd run out of string and just drawn lines. In the middle of it all was "Tall girl, zombie maker, name starts with T". From there a couple of red strings stretched to "Tall guy, ZMG father, zombie" and "black chick, zombie shadow powers, really aggressive". After that, it got incoherent fast.

"Good catch," she said. "Get photos, then try to see if you can unravel it. Does he have a computer?"

"If he does, it's not here," Loncey replied. "Probably took it with when he bolted."

"Well, we'll just have to make do without." As nobody else had taken the bedroom (not totally surprising, all things considered) she headed in there herself and started to toss the place.

There was already a BOLO in effect on Stafford, but if they could find out where he'd gone to, that would save a hell of a lot of time.

<><>​

Hookwolf

"How hard can it be to find someone on their own we can grab?" groused Stormtiger. "We could've had ten people by now."

"We're not just looking for someone to grab," Bradly explained. "We're looking for someone who can't get away, but with witnesses so Animator can hear about it. Someone on their own, no witnesses, it won't actually fuckin' help us."

He waited for Cricket to chime in and support his position, before remembering that she was part of the reason they were doing it this way. So instead he glared at Stormtiger, making his point that way.

"Okay, yeah, got it." Stormtiger hunched down in his seat. "You ask me, doing it this way's a huge waste of time."

"Take it to Kaiser. This is all his idea." Brad grinned briefly as Stormtiger visibly winced. Getting on Kaiser's bad side, especially when things were already going wrong, was never a great idea.

"Yeah, okay, got it—hey!" Stormtiger pointed out through the windshield. "That black guy in the car right there. Can you see anyone else in the car?"

"Yeah, a woman and a kid. Perfect." Brad slowed the van and changed lanes, to get behind the car in question. "I'll cut him off, you grab him. Leave the kid and the woman alone. She'll want to protect it, and we need her to be our witness."

"Got it." Stormtiger climbed through into the back of the van, pulling his mask on once he was settled.

Bradley picked his moment carefully, waiting until there was no oncoming traffic, before roaring out and around the car, then swerving in to force it off the road. Evidently caught by surprise, the driver turned the car to avoid a collision, bounced over the curb, and was stopped hard by a telephone pole. A headlight shattered.

As the van screeched to a halt, the side door slammed open. Stormtiger launched himself out of the van, followed by the Empire mooks. Reaching the car first, he yanked open the driver's side door and grabbed the husky young man by the shoulder. One of the other men had a knife out and ready; he slashed the driver's seat belt, making it possible for Stormtiger to drag him out of the car.

The scuffle that followed was very brief. Ignoring the screaming woman, they zip-tied the driver's hands behind him and shoved a bag over his head. Less than a minute after the vehicles had come to a halt, they were dragging their initiation 'volunteer' into the back of the van. The side door slammed shut and Stormtiger yelled, "Go!"

Bradley popped the clutch, gave it the gas, and peeled out of there. Finally, he thought. This took way too long.

<><>​

11:00 AM

Coil (Throwaway Timeline)

To say that Calvert was not thrilled would be to perpetrate a gross injustice upon the subtle art of understatement. The timeline where he'd goaded Stafford into stealing the information he needed from the hospital records should have been one that he could discard at will. Depending on the PRT's knowledge of (and interest in) Animator and her minions, the response to the theft could be anywhere from lackadaisical to overwhelming, but it was always going to happen.

As it was, he'd entirely failed to speak with Lagos about his experiences, and he had yet to meet with Stafford and take care of the handover. When he tried calling Stafford from his burner phone, it had gone straight to voicemail, which hadn't boded well for the situation. Worse, he'd been freer with his name and position in his original conversation with Stafford than normally would've been wise, mainly to instil a modicum of backbone into the young lout and get him to do what needed to be done.

Which meant that if worst came to worst and he had to discard the other timeline, there was a looming tsunami of potential shit poised to descend upon him from a great height, especially if the forces of law and order coerced Stafford into talking. Calvert figured it would take all of three minutes, if Stafford was feeling particularly stubborn. More likely he'd spill every bean he had, as well as quite a few the PRT weren't interested in, in his earnest attempts to make them understand how he was the hero of the piece.

There were only so many spots that the sidewalk café (unimaginatively named "Sit 'n' Sip") could be surveilled from without drawing attention, but that hadn't originally been a problem. Once he had the information from Stafford, he could transcribe what he needed across then drop the timeline. But now, things were a little more fraught.

Scrub that: a lot more fraught.

<><>​

Coil (Safe Timeline)

Thomas Calvert had been a trained soldier once upon a time, and that sort of thing never really went away. But he hadn't had to truly fight for his life for more than ten years, and he'd neglected any sort of exercises or drills to keep himself in fighting trim, so he was nowhere near as good as he'd once been. As an aspiring criminal mastermind, he hadn't thought he needed to do that anymore; once he had a bunch of loyal minions, they could do the fighting and dying for him.

That was a hypothetical future, and this was right now. Lying in the back of a van, his hands zip-tied behind him and a musty-smelling bag over his head, he knew he was in serious jeopardy of never reaching that future.

Then, it hadn't been personal, not really; Nilbog's monsters had been out to kill every intruder in his Kingdom. Now, it was definitely personal. The Empire Eighty-Eight hated him because of his skin colour instead of just being human, but that was where the difference ended. They were equally willing to kill him, merely for being in their city.

There were ways and means of breaking free of zip-ties. He'd been shown how to do this once, but the intervening years of never worrying about having to break free of zip-ties had dulled his memory of the training. Still, the principle was fairly simple.

With his arms behind his back, his leverage could've been better, but a thin plastic strip was only so strong. Put sufficient strain on it sharply enough, and it would snap. Zip-ties had never been intended for the specific purpose of restraining prisoners, after all. They were at best a stopgap.

The van had been stopped for a few minutes now, and everyone had gotten out. Hopefully, this meant that nobody was paying attention to him right now. Tensing his wrists and pressing his hands together, he hunched his shoulders and forced his elbows as far apart as he could.

Nothing happened, except that the plastic bit into his wrists until he was almost certain it had drawn blood. He clenched his teeth, certain within his own mind that real blood would be drawn if he didn't get out of this. So he held his breath and wrenched his elbows apart again, harder.

Pain lanced up his arms, and he thought he felt warm blood running down his wrists. It didn't matter. He wouldn't let it matter. If he was going to salvage this situation in any way at all, he had to get free.

On the third attempt, he arched his whole body, throwing everything he had into forcing his wrists apart against the stricture of the zip-tie. For long moments he strained, clenching his teeth to avoid crying out from the pain—and then there was a distinct snap and the pressure disappeared. He didn't even realise he'd succeeded until the zip-tie fell off onto the floor of the van.

Okay, then. Yanking the bag from his head, he rubbed his wrists, noting that the skin had definitely been chafed off here and there. When I get my organisation built, there are some Empire assholes that I'm going to take great pleasure in sniping—

The side door of the van slid open. "Well, hey," said Hookwolf. "We don't even have to cut you free. Come on, time to join the party."

… fuck.

<><>​

Rodney Stafford

This is not how I thought it would be.

Rodney was learning quite a few lessons of life, mostly how bug-out bags were a lot heavier than they looked and how dashing off into the wild blue yonder to stay ahead of the forces of corrupt law and order was harder than Hollywood made it seem. He'd barely made it a hundred yards out of the building before he had to stop and rest, and even then he had to scuttle into an alleyway before a couple of cop cars zoomed past and stopped in front of his building. With mental images of tracker dogs barking at his heels and helicopters looming overhead, he staggered off down the alley, trying to figure out how to get to the café that Mr Calvert had named as the meeting point.

Taking the bus was probably not the best idea—he wasn't even sure he could heft the bag up the steps onto the bus anyway—and he was certain all the cabbies would've been contacted and told to keep a lookout for him. Though why they were on his back so badly, he couldn't figure out. Unless the conspiracy went deeper than he'd even imagined, and the Hebert girl was working for a real-world equivalent of the Parasol Corporation, seeking to create their own zombies for whatever cash-grabbing reason they had in mind?

In which case, it was easy to understand why nobody was interested in listening to him. The fix was in. If the government was in bed with the corporations already, which everyone knew it was, who cared about one more lobbyist handing out bribes to look the other way?

Which meant that saving the world was down to him and Mr Calvert. Rodney had a sixth sense about people, whether they could be trusted and stuff like that, and Mr Calvert had struck him as being a straight shooter, a man possessed of true integrity. He couldn't be bought off, any more than Rodney himself could be, so together they would bring the truth to the world, uncover the corruption, and save the goddamn day.

Three blocks onward, he'd been forced to stop and take another rest. No matter which shoulder he carried the bag on, it was killing him after about three steps. As he slumped against the alley wall, he got his phone out and turned it on. It started blowing up almost immediately with text messages and other alerts; panicking, he turned it off again without reading anything.

They're probably trying to track me by my phone. Can they do that when it's turned off? He didn't know for certain. Some sites he'd been on said yes, others said no.

He hadn't been arrested yet, so he was willing to believe they couldn't. That was good; he liked his phone, and didn't want to have to throw it away. But he was thirsty, so he got out a bottle of water and emptied it in more or less one long gulp. Shoving the empty back in the bag, he forced himself to his feet, hefted his interminable burden, and staggered onward.

<><>​

Animator

Nothing seemed to be going on. Nobody was searching the school, as far as we could tell. After the single call over the PA system for us to go to the office (as if we would), it seemed that Winslow had washed its hands of us.

"You know," Sophia confided to me as we lurked down the corridor from the stairwell, "I bet if we just hadn't gone to class at all, nobody would've given a damn that we weren't there."

I hated to admit that she might be right, but … well, she was probably right. As an overall optimist, I liked to look at the bright side of things before I accepted the more realistic view; my general Winslow experience had taught me that things usually were that bad. It sucked, but that was the way things were in the real world.

This also meant that if the Empire or the ABB showed up at the school and recruited help to look for us, the school would do everything in its power to look the other way. They didn't want to do anything they absolutely didn't have to, and I very much doubted that Principal Blackwell was going to stand up to Lung or Kaiser. So, in a very real way, Sophia and I were on our own until Dad got there.

Sophia's phone vibrated in her hand. She'd cut the ringtone so nobody could simply locate us by calling her number, but now it was ringing anyway. "Who's that?" I asked, because if Dad was on the way, it couldn't be him.

"It's Mom." Sophia put the phone to her ear. "Hi, yeah, what's up?"

I'd seen people go pale before, but never this badly. Sophia's face went gray, and she put out her hand to steady herself against the wall.

"What?" I asked, quietly but urgently. "What happened?"

Her eyes focused on me, and she seemed to gain a measure of strength from that. "I'm on it, Mom," she promised. "We're on it. We'll get him back."

"What?" I asked again. "Get who back? What's happened?"

She ended the call and put her phone away with quick, jerky movements. "It's the Empire." Her voice held more hatred than I'd ever heard from her before. "They've got Terry."

<><>​

Danny

As he pulled into the parking lot, Danny anxiously scanned the front of the building for any signs of trouble. He still didn't like the idea of owning cell-phones, but this sort of thing would be a lot easier to handle if everyone could communicate with everyone else. Next chance we get, he decided, we're getting one each.

A surge of power washed through him and he knew Taylor had gone into the shadow realm, as she called it. On the third floor, a window opened. Taylor climbed out, hung from her hands for a moment, then dropped. She landed, rolled, and jumped to her feet; Danny belatedly recalled that while she was in that state, she was a lot stronger and more durable. Sophia followed behind, cheating a little by going into shadow state just before hitting the ground.

Sophia was the faster runner, but Taylor almost beat her to the car anyway. "We've gotta go," Taylor gasped, scrambling into the front seat. "The Empire just kidnapped Sophia's brother."

"Shit." Danny turned to look at Sophia, who was looking as pissed as he'd ever seen her. "You think it's connected to you and Taylor?"

"What else could it fuckin' be?" she demanded bitterly. "I've gotta save the big moron, otherwise Mom'll never forgive me."

"We'll totally save him," Taylor promised. "Just … how? Where do we go?"

"We're gonna need masks, too," Sophia added. "We don't need more assholes figuring out who we are, otherwise this shit's just going to keep happening."

"I brought your costumes along." Danny drummed his fingers on the wheel in thought, even as they pulled out of the parking lot. "We'll head for Empire territory. If they grabbed him, it'll be for one of their stupid initiations. There's a bunch of warehouses that they use for dogfights and similar activities. Chances are, it'll be there."

Sophia nodded jerkily. "Okay, gotcha. Let's do that."

Taylor's head came up and she half-turned to look at Sophia. "Borrow your phone for a minute?"

"Sure, what do you have in mind?" Sophia passed it forward without demur.

Taylor pulled her wallet from her pocket and extracted a card from it. "Reinforcements."

<><>​

Coil (Safe Timeline)

There were eight of them, standing in a rough circle in the echoing warehouse. Around them was a loose group of Empire Eighty-Eight gangsters, with Stormtiger and Hookwolf among them. In the middle of the circle, Calvert had been forcibly stripped to the waist, the Empire assholes jeering and making fun of his skinny physique.

"Rules are simple!" Hookwolf raised his voice so everyone could hear. "You prospects, you don't leave until that skinny black bastard is down and every one of you has blooded yourself. Boy, if you can put all eight of our guys down, you can walk outta here. Anyone not understand?"

"You're making a huge mistake here!" shouted Calvert. Sweet reason was simply not going to work, so he had to go with threats and bluff. "I work for the PRT! They are not going to take this lying down! Every single one of you is going down for this!" He turned in a slow circle, pointing at the eight prospects. "I've seen your faces! I'll know your names! They don't play games with anyone who fucks with their people!"

"Big words!" jeered Hookwolf. "I had Victor check you out! You're a consultant! They don't even like you!"

"What, really?" asked Stormtiger. "Why not?"

"Ellisburg, ten years ago." Hookwolf gestured at Calvert and sneered. "Shot his captain in the back so he could save his own ass. That's why he's not a fuckin' general by now. They hate his guts."

"Yeah, like I always say. Never trust a nigger with a gun." Stormtiger took a cardboard box that someone handed him, then heaved the contents into the middle of the circle.

A pair of brass knuckledusters bounced and slid almost to Calvert's feet, while other weapons scattered here and there. He saw a knife, a metal pipe and a cleaver, but he wasn't paying attention to that. Swooping down, he grabbed up the knuckledusters and slid his fingers into place.

The prospect in front of him was just bending to grab up the steel pipe when Calvert rushed him, swinging a hasty punch into the side of his head. The young man staggered and Calvert side-kicked him in the groin. He went down; Calvert also dropped to a crouch, grabbing up the pipe in his free hand.

The clinking of metal warned him just quickly enough to bring up the pipe as he turned. This let the length of chain hit the pipe rather than his head, wrapping around and around with vicious force. He stepped in, pulling on the pipe to bring his enemy to him, and unloaded another haymaker into the new adversary's jaw. Bone cracked under the impact of the knuckledusters; the prospect fell sideways, his eyes rolling up into his head.

Leaving the chain wrapped around the pipe, Calvert looked around for his next opponent.

One way or another, I'm getting out of this. All I've got to do is draw it out until I find out what I want to know.

<><>​

Kenny Lagos, BBPD

The book was one that Kenny had been meaning to read for some time now, but he'd never gotten around to it. Now, it seemed, he had the time. Settling back with a beer—he might be dead, but a cold brewski still went down just fine—he turned to where he'd left off and started reading again.

A dozen pages later, energy flushed through his entire body, bringing him to full awareness. "Holy shit," he said, sitting up and looking around. He'd felt it last night, so he knew what it was, but the sheer power of it still blew him away. Animator's up to something. I wonder what?

And then, while he was still wondering, his phone rang. With the feeling that this was kind of coincidental, he answered it, not sure if he knew the number. "Hello?"

"Hi. This is Animator." She was telling the truth; he recognised her voice. "I've got a problem. The Empire's kidnapped my friend's brother, and we're pretty sure it's so some of their recruits can do an initiation. Can you come help?"

He tossed the book aside and came up out of the chair. "You bet. Kicking Nazi ass? I'm definitely down for that, especially if Hookwolf's there. I got a bone to pick with that asshole." Looking around, he spotted his work boots and started putting them on.

"Excellent. I'll text you the address as soon as we know more."

"You got it." Kenny grabbed his personal sidearm and strapped it on, as well as his taser. A retractable baton finished off his ensemble.

Thirty seconds later, he was out of the apartment and heading for his car.

I'm coming for you, you son of a bitch.

<><>​

Dana McAllister

The bedroom had been thoroughly tossed; every item of clothing had been checked, every dark corner investigated, and drawers pulled all the way out so she could check underneath and behind them. In the process, she'd learned far more about Rodney Stafford's personal life and hygiene than she ever wanted to know, but nothing at all to do with the theft of the medical files or what he intended to do with them. It was all probably on his laptop, she thought gloomily. People his age spend most of their lives online anyway.

"Hey, Detective!" It was Loncey, out in the living room. "I think I've got something."

"Well, it's more than I've got." Peeling off the gloves she'd been wearing for the search—because ugh—she headed out of the bedroom to see what the cop had found.

It turned out to be a Post-It note with Stafford's distinctive scrawl on it. 'Meet TC at S&S. Do not forget!'

"Well, now," she murmured, peering at the note without touching it with her bare hands. "That's definitely something. I wonder who TC is."

"And where S-and-S is." Loncey frowned. "How many places in the city start with those initials?"

"Can't be many." Dana pulled her phone out and did a quick search. "Where was it, anyway?"

"Under the fridge, along with about a quarter inch of dust." Loncey shrugged. "I moved it in case something had gone under there, and what do you know. Something did."

"Huh." Dana eyed the abortive conspiracy wall. It was placed about right for something to fall off and go straight under the fridge. Then she checked her phone screen. "Four businesses have that arrangement of initials. Sand & Slate Masonry, Stanton & Stanton Lawyers, Stansfield & Son Hardware, and a coffee place called Sit & Sip."

"The masonry place and the hardware store …" Loncey shook his head. "Can't see it. I'm thinking the coffee shop. Classic place for a handover."

"Hmm." Dana rubbed her chin. While she didn't think Stafford would go to a lawyer the day after he raided a hospital for private medical details, it was technically possible that they were on the wrong track with his motives. There might actually be a deeper legal reason for all this. What it was, she couldn't imagine, but fortunately that part wasn't her job. "We'll hit the Sit & Sip, but I'll call the lawyers on the way just to make sure they've got nothing to do with it."

Loncey nodded sharply. "Yes, ma'am."

<><>​

Rodney

He'd tried his best, but he just couldn't do it. His bug-out bag had fought him to a standstill, and finally defeated him. The tinned food had been the major issue, of course. He hadn't wanted to leave it, as unappetising as baked beans and tinned peas were, because he had no idea how long it was going to take him and Mr Calvert to put an end to the incipient zombie plague.

But he'd had to do it anyway. Furtively, he'd stashed the tins and bottled water behind a dumpster in an alleyway, leaving just his spare clothing, laptop, and medical printouts in the bag. It was much easier to carry now, and he told himself that he'd be back to grab the food and water as soon as he'd attended the meeting and handed over the information that Mr Calvert needed.

With somewhat more of a strut in his step, he approached the Sit & Sip café that Mr Calvert had directed him to. He toned his movements down as soon as he noticed what he was doing; right now, he needed to be anonymous, not broadcasting his actions to everyone. Even though he was actually in the process of saving the fucking world.

As he sauntered into the café with his best nonchalant air, he wondered if he'd get the Medal of Honor out of this, or if they'd make a special medal up for the occasion. After all, there'd never been a zombie plague before. Being the only person in the world to have stopped one had to count for something, right?

<><>​

Coil (Stafford Timeline; previously "Throwaway")

Stafford was early, but that was a good thing. In the other timeline, Calvert was being hard-pressed by the Empire recruits, only holding his own by virtue of the fact that they'd never trained in mutual support. He had to get the information from Stafford and ensure that no connection was ever made between them, as soon as possible.

The easiest way to do this was to drop the Stafford timeline and use his powers to their full advantage by putting down his opponents; however, to do that, he had to learn what he wanted to find out. Next easiest was to drop the Empire timeline, make the meeting, then take Stafford elsewhere and make sure his body was never found. Simply killing him had ceased to be an option when Animator appeared on the scene and started bringing murder victims back to life.

The second option would've been the most appealing, except that Animator (and the PRT) would still know that the medical information had been stolen, and thus they would all be on guard for any attempt to capitalise on it. Calvert had zero desire to be chased down and torn apart by a bunch of angry reanimated minions before he'd had a chance to get his hooks into the girl. Thus, the Empire timeline was currently his choice by a very thin margin; all he had to do was survive it.

With that in mind, he followed Stafford into the café.

<><>​

Hookwolf

It had taken longer than he'd wanted it to, but they finally had their initiation target, ready to roll. The eight prospects were also there, all eager to prove they had what it took to be part of the Empire; Bradley would be keeping an eye on each of them, to make sure they didn't hold back when the time came to go all in. He'd also passed the word around to every active Empire member out on the street, to tell anyone who asked where the initiation was going to be. If Animator was going to mess with the Empire's capes, he was going to mess with her.

Nobody had shown up yet to break up the initiation, but there was still time. He was purposely drawing out the situation, letting tension build before starting the event. In the middle of the ring of prospects, the young black man was looking around, terrified. That was also part of the intent: if he was scared, he'd fight harder, give them a better show. But he'd also fight stupider and still lose.

Bradley looked from side to side, but nobody seemed about to kick in the door. Stormtiger caught his eye and shrugged slightly: may as well get this on the road. If Animator showed up, they'd deal with her. If she didn't, they'd blood the new prospects anyway. It was a win-win.

He drew a deep breath. "Rules are simple! You prospects, you don't leave until that black bastard is down, and every one of you has blooded yourself. Boy, if you can put all eight of our guys down, you can walk outta here. Anyone not understand?"

The black guy said nothing, but he'd probably figured out that nothing he said would do him a bit of good. He slowly turned, probably to make sure none of the prospects—all kids his age—were sneaking up on him. Bradley spotted that his fists were clenched, which meant he was going to at least try to make a fight of it before they brought him down.

Stormtiger gave the signal, and the box holding the various weapons was passed forward. A quick toss had the pipe and knife and chain and stuff rolling and bouncing across the concrete floor, where if someone was quick enough they could grab something up and become a lot more dangerous. Bradley was just fine with that.

That was when Shadow Stalker phased in through the wall and shot Stormtiger in the shoulder with her crossbow.

<><>​

Coil (Empire Timeline; previously "Safe")

I can still do this. I can win this. I just need that edge.

The brass knuckles were in his pocket, the pipe in one hand and the chain in the other. He'd taken down four of the assholes against him, but now they were starting to fight smart and use group tactics against him. Even with his training and combat experience, a lion could still be brought down by a bunch of shitty hyenas.

What he needed was the ability to make the perfect move every time; until he dropped the Stafford timeline, he couldn't do that. And Stafford wasn't taking the fucking hint.

<><>​

Rodney

"Stafford!" hissed Mr Calvert in Rodney's ear.

"Oh, there you are." Rodney grinned with relief. Mr Calvert was here, and everything would be alright.

"What are you wasting time for? I need that information!" He seemed to be a bit agitated, though Rodney couldn't figure out why. There'd be time enough when they were sitting down, wouldn't there?

"I'm hungry and thirsty," Rodney explained. "So I just thought I'd get something to eat and drink." The muffins and the chilled fruit juice looked especially tempting. "Want me to get you something, seeing how I'm in line already?"

"No!" Boy, Mr Calvert was being all kinds of impatient today. "I want you to step out of line, come and sit down, and show me what you found!"

Muffins and fruit juice: Rodney wanted them. "But wouldn't it look more normal if—"

Mr Calvert grabbed for his bag. "Is it in here? Give me that!"

"Hey!" Rodney protested more or less by reflex, hanging onto the strap. His laptop was in the bag as well, and if Mr Calvert could just give him ten seconds, he could unzip it and hand over the printouts. He'd thought they were supposed to be doing this the secret-agent undercover way, so they wouldn't draw attention, but no matter how they were doing it, he wasn't just going to give Mr Calvert his laptop too. That hadn't been the deal at all.

<><>​

Coil

Stafford:

"Give it to me!" Thomas was pretty sure he could feel paper crinkling in the backpack. There weren't any folded up printouts sticking out of Stafford's pockets, so he assumed this had to be it. He wrenched on the bag, trying to detach it from Stafford's grip, but the young intern held on with stubborn strength.

Empire:

The punk with the knife closed with him and slashed wildly while two of his buddies tried to grab him from the other side. Thomas deflected the knife with the chain, then spun around and swung the pipe hard at the head of the closest guy on that side. It connected, but the impact nearly knocked the pipe out of his hand.

Stafford:

Fuck this. He pulled the pistol from his shoulder holster and pointed it in Stafford's face. "Let. The. Fucking. Bag. Go."

With a shocked expression, Stafford released the backpack. All around Thomas, café patrons fell away like wheat before the scythe. He didn't care. Pulling it to him, he yanked at the zipper.

Empire:

He'd lost track of the third guy, but ducked just in time as the baseball bat came whistling over his head. Backswinging with the pipe, he connected with the asshole's knee, eliciting a scream. But the guy wasn't down yet.

Stafford:

All of a sudden, police officers were swarming into the café, pistols drawn. "Drop the gun! Hands on your head! On the floor! Now-now-now!"

Looking down the barrels of at least three firearms, his own pistol pointing in entirely the wrong direction, he hesitated—

Empire:

The fourth guy tackled him, pinning his arms to his sides. An instant later, an agonising pain lanced through his back. The knife penetrated deeply enough that he knew it was at least a critical injury, maybe even a fatal one. With his power, he'd had enough of those that he could judge them fairly accurately.

The fight was over for him; even if they didn't kill him then and there, he wouldn't long survive the wound.

Motherfucker.

He dropped the timeline.

Stafford:

Carefully, he followed the instructions of the police. He was fully aware of how often people ended up 'shot while resisting', so he didn't pull any trickery. It wasn't even worth splitting the timeline again, not until he saw an opportunity, so he didn't.

It was the plainclothes detective who took up the backpack and carefully opened it, then pulled out the sheets of printed paper. Unfortunately, he didn't have an angle to see the names on it as they handcuffed him then frisked him. There has to be a way to salvage this, he told himself as he was bundled into the back of a cop car.

But whatever it was, he couldn't think of it.

<><>​

Animator

I dropped all the way into the shadow realm, and Officer Lagos kicked the door in. Sophia was already inside; I followed Dad into the building, after Officer Lagos stormed in. Two more of the Empire assholes were down and bleeding from Sophia's crossbow shots by the time I got inside, over and above her shot on Stormtiger.

Hookwolf grew blades out of his everywhere and came for her, and she of course went to shadow and jumped through him. Coming out the other side, she dropped back into solid form and kicked him in the back so hard he flew into the wall. At the same time, Dad and Officer Lagos were laying waste to the rank and file. Powered up as high as we were, men and women were being literally hurled across the room. Some of them pulled guns, and Lagos just shot them.

With a roar of profanity that should've scorched my delicate ears, Hookwolf tore himself free from the wall and ran at Sophia again. She ignored him, focusing on grabbing Terry and literally leaping twenty feet with him to get past some of the Empire goons. Before Hookwolf could get to her, Officer Lagos was in his face.

There was no banter, no back-and-forth like I'd seen on some of the cape shows. They came together like a car crash, all tearing metal and shrieking impact. Lagos took some cuts, but they didn't bother him in the slightest; he gave some back, swinging the baton like he was trying out for the World Series.

The normals broke and scattered. A few of them ran past me, but the moment they saw my glowing eyes, they gave me a wide berth as well. Lagos was involved with beating nineteen shades of shit out of Hookwolf, so Stormtiger (after he'd pulled Sophia's arrow out of his shoulder) went after Dad. Maybe he thought the top hat made him an easy target or something.

Dad took a couple of hits from Stormtiger's air claws, then came in fast and hard. Stormtiger tried to back off, but Dad wasn't having any. He was taller than the Empire cape by a few inches, and he used that to bring down his fist on Stormtiger's right shoulder in a massive clubbing blow.

Stormtiger tried to deflect it, but that just wasn't going to happen. Bone snapped, audible even from where I was (and visible too, for that matter) and Stormtiger's arm dropped to his side, useless. As he staggered from the hit, Dad grabbed his left arm.

Spinning around, Dad hoisted him in the air then smashed him down against the concrete at full arm extension. Concrete broke, and so did Stormtiger's left shoulder. Picking him up, Dad did it again. Stormtiger didn't get up.

Hookwolf was still under attack from Officer Lagos, and he was not having a good time of it. Punching a blade clear through the reanimated cop's chest did nothing at all, while every blow Lagos landed on him smashed metal from his body. When Stormtiger went down, Hookwolf made his final mistake.

He tried to run.

Lagos was not having any of that shit. With one last smashing impact, he knocked just enough of Hookwolf's armour off to give himself a clear target. The taser came off his belt and he zapped Hookwolf from about one foot away, holding the trigger down as the weapon rattled off its tac-tac-tac-tac and the supervillain convulsed.

Finally, he let up, as all the metal retracted back into Hookwolf's body and the man himself lay there unarmoured and defenseless. I ventured forward, reasonably sure that the fight was over. Stormtiger lay off to the side, unconscious, and Hookwolf was absolutely out for the count, his life force flickering as I watched. Those members of the Empire who weren't unconscious (or possibly dead) had long since bolted.

"Is he … is he dead?" asked Terry, staring at Hookwolf.

"Does it matter if he is?" asked Sophia sarcastically. "He was gonna stand back and watch them murder you."

"I'm not judging. I was just wondering."

As I walked up alongside Officer Lagos, Hookwolf's brain went from the buzz of life to the slowly declining glow of the recently dead. I glanced at Terry and nodded. "He just passed," I confirmed.

"Oh."

"So what are we gonna do with all these assholes?" asked Sophia, looking around at the carnage.

"Call the PRT and let them handle it," Dad stated, then looked toward Officer Lagos. "Right?"

"Probably the best idea." Lagos looked down at Hookwolf's body. "You know, I thought I'd feel more … well, vindicated about killing him. Seeing as he killed me and everything."

"You can feel good about getting revenge for everyone else he killed," Sophia suggested.

I looked down at the body and rubbed my chin. "Hm."

Sophia turned toward me. "What do you mean, 'hm'? What's going through your mind?"

"Right now, we don't have much credit with the PRT, do we?" I wasn't really asking the question so much as thinking out loud. "Kill a cape, you get all sorts of inquiries about whether it was truly justified. Even one as bad as Hookwolf."

"I've heard of that," agreed Officer Lagos. "Why?"

"Well, what if he wasn't dead?" I crouched beside the body and laid my hand on his chest. I was still full to the brim with Alabaster's life force. It took one big jolt to change him from glowing skeleton to reanimated person, and a smaller one to repair the incidental damage. As he sat up and looked around, I stepped back.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" shouted Sophia.

"You've got to be shitting me!" Lagos added.

Hookwolf looked around, stared down at himself, then his eyes found me. "You!"

"Me," I agreed. Reaching out, I repaired Dad's injuries, then Lagos'. "You just died. Now you're back." An evil grin peeled my lips back from my teeth. "And now you're mine."



End of Part Thirteen

 

[Ack]

All Alone

Part Fourteen: Facing Facts

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by @GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Animator

"What?" growled Hookwolf. Not 'said it in a nasty manner'. He actually growled the word. All part of the whole 'beast in human form' theme, I figured. So overdone. "What the fuck are you talking about, bitch?"

Officer Lagos stepped forward at that, but I gestured him back again. "Welcome to your new lease on life, Hookwolf. You're about to find that there's a whole set of new rules in play. Rule number one: You can't hurt me on your best day." Spreading my hands, I silently invited him to try.

"You think just because you're a chick I'll go easy on you? As if." He grew blades all over his upper torso, including two particularly long and vicious ones extending from his knuckles, and slashed at me with them. I gauged he wasn't going for a kill-shot, just a nasty wound that would put me screaming on the floor.

It didn't matter either way; the blades veered off target, and he stumbled forward at the shift in balance. I folded my arms and looked at him. "Keep trying. You might give me a cold from all the breeze."

"I'll show you a breeze!" This time he wasn't playing. Both blades were heading for my chest, on a trajectory that would see them punching through some of my favourite vital organs and out through my back. This was a kill-shot.

Except that the blades stopped, an inch away from me. Hookwolf stared, his muscles bulging as he tried to force himself to cover that last tiny gap. "What the fuck did you do to me?"

"I already explained that. You died, and I brought you back. As a result, you can't lay a hand on me." I stepped away from him and went to one of the less fortunate members of the Empire rank and file. One of Stormtiger's air-claws had ripped into him and caused a jagged wound that he'd bled out from while the curbstomp was still ongoing. "Which brings us to rule number two." Crouching, I laid my hand on the mook, sending a jolt of power into him, though I didn't bother fixing his injuries.

The guy came awake with a reflexive gasp, and sat up as I straightened and stepped away from him.

"Jesus fuck!" he screamed, looking down at the gaping hole in his torso, then around at the rest of us. "What the fuck's going on?"

"Run," I advised him coldly. "Run, and you might just get away."

He didn't need any more urging. Scrambling to his feet, he bolted toward the nearest exit. I raised my hand, paused to make sure Hookwolf was watching, then snapped my fingers. At the same time, I pulled my power out of the revived mook. He fell in mid-stride, face-planting and sliding to a stop.

I turned to look at Hookwolf, who was staring at me and then at the mook. "Rule number two is simple. You're only walking and talking and thinking because I choose to let it happen."

"Depends on what you mean by 'thinking'," muttered Sophia.

"Be nice," I said, amused. "He's in your camp now, if he chooses to be." I returned my full attention to Hookwolf. "I can pull the plug on you at any time. I don't need to be near you. I don't even need to know where you are. I just have to want it to happen. So right now, your primary concern should be convincing me that it's in my best interests to keep you up and moving around."

"I don't feel dead." He'd retracted his blades by now, and was patting himself on the chest and face, as though that was a viable test. "Pretty sure I've still got a pulse."

I raised a finger. "Hold that thought." Then I dropped out of the shadow realm.

Everyone felt it, of course, but Hookwolf was the only one who was really surprised. "Oof. Christ, what was that? What did you do to me? And what happened to your eyes?"

"I stopped supplying you with extra energy." I grinned behind the veil. "Check your pulse now. And while you're at it, see how long you can hold your breath. You might be surprised."

As Hookwolf took a breath, I shared a grin with Dad. This should be good.

<><>​

Detective Dana McAllister, BBPD

The laptop sat open on Dana's desk. Stafford hadn't even bothered to password-lock it, so getting in had been literally a matter of turning it on. He was a single man living alone; after her experience searching his bedroom, she'd gone in expecting quite a bit of the content to be extremely 'adult'. In this, at least, she'd been unhappily proven correct.

"How are you going with the phone?" she asked Loncey, seated across the desk from her. He'd been useful enough at the scene that she'd requested his assistance with Stafford's effects.

"Third try," he reported. "His birthdate, backwards. I swear, some of these people must want to lose their crap, so they can moan about it on social media."

"Well, damn. Nice work. Anything useful on it?"

"Nothing in text messages, but a couple of emails that look interesting."

"Okay, good. Keep looking, while I check that out." Dana figured that the larger screen of the laptop would give her a better chance of spotting minor details. Clicking out of the rabbit hole she'd found herself in, she accessed his email server and saw what Loncey meant. There was an email apparently sent to himself with several image files attached, and a 'notice of disciplinary hearing' that Stafford probably wasn't going to be attending, due to being under arrest.

The image files matched in every detail with the papers they'd retrieved from his bag: printouts of medical information for Taylor Hebert, Danny Hebert, Sophia Hess, and a John Doe, the last being noted as DOA. Danny and Taylor Hebert looked alike enough that they were probably father and daughter, while the Hess girl seemed to be around Taylor's age but didn't look anything like her. The John Doe was almost certainly a drug addict of some kind; Dana knew the signs.

The Brockton Bay General Hospital administration already strongly suspected Stafford of gaining illicit entry by way of his staff card, getting access to a terminal and downloading these files. This was just the proof. HIPAA violations were a big deal; Stafford was absolutely losing his job over this, just for starters.

The next question was twofold: what was so important about the Heberts and Hess that a PRT-affiliated consultant (eyebrows had definitely raised when that connection popped) had chosen to commit several crimes to get hold of information about them, and why the hell had Stafford agreed to aid and abet him in those crimes? There didn't even seem to be a payment arrangement in place.

She clicked onto the email about the disciplinary hearing, and it was what she'd expected. Someone had used Stafford's swipe card to access the hospital late at night, and a security guard had identified him as the person who had been intruding. Would he kindly attend the hearing—a date and time were given—so that the aforementioned disciplinary action could be properly arranged?

Closing her eyes for a moment, Dana shook her head slowly. Goddamn bureaucracy. There were no doubt regulations in place for slap-on-the-wrist offences like stealing pens from the front counter, and this probably had been activated at the same time as the hospital administration had directly contacted the BBPD to bring Stafford in for the HIPAA violation.

"I've got nothing here that connects Stafford directly with Calvert," she said, once she'd gotten over her bout of irritation. "Anything on your end?"

"Not yet." Loncey was still flicking through files on the phone. "I'm beginning to think there isn't anything on here. If there was, I would've found it already. This guy's got no concept of information security."

"Yeah." A thought struck her. "He was ranting and raving a bit when they shoved him in the back of the patrol car. Did you hear what that was about?"

Loncey looked up from the phone and frowned. "Yeah, actually. Zombies. He was talking about how there was an imminent zombie apocalypse and how we were all complicit if we didn't just let him go and get the information to Calvert."

"Is that so?" Dana closed the laptop, pulled the power cord, and locked it in her desk drawer. She could always get back to it, and she didn't want it wandering off in the meantime. While other people had lost cases due to chain of custody rules not being followed, that had never been her. "What do you say we go and have a chat with Mr Stafford about zombies?"

Loncey raised his eyebrows speculatively, then nodded and handed the phone to her. "Sounds like a plan."

<><>​

Animator

Five minutes later, Hookwolf finally let go the breath he'd been holding. Experimentally, he breathed in and out a few times, then shook his head. "That's fuckin' impossible," he insisted, but there was no conviction behind his words. "You can't bring anyone back from the dead. Nobody can."

"I can." I didn't say it as a boast, but a simple statement of fact. "You killed Officer Lagos here, I brought him back, he killed you, and I brought you back. So, now you're on your feet again, what are you gonna do with that?"

Ignoring my question, he stared at Kenny. "When the fuck did I kill you? I've never seen you before in my life."

"Just the other day, at the Lord Street Market," Kenny informed him bluntly. "You threw a motorcycle at me. It caved my chest in."

"Oh. Right." It was clear he recalled the incident only vaguely. "Shit happens, I guess."

"Hookwolf." I said it sharply, and his head came around fast. It was clear he didn't like it when I raised my voice to him, but I honestly didn't give a shit. "I'm not going to ask a third time. What are your plans now? Are you gonna cooperate?"

"You can kill me any time you want," he said; not an answer, but at least engaging with me. "Can you bring me back again from that?"

I shook my head. "Nope. It's a one and done. The moment I decide you're no longer of use to me …" I raised my hand like before, my fingers poised to snap.

He flinched; I was pretty sure that if he'd had blood flow in his face, he would've gone pale. "Shit, fuck, don't do that! Okay, fine, you've got me by the balls. What do you want from me?"

"Beans," I said thoughtfully.

"Beans?" Hookwolf looked at me strangely, but he wasn't the only one. Officer Lagos and Dad were also apparently in the dark about what I meant. I was pretty sure Sophia had figured it out, from her snicker.

"As in spilling them, to Officer Lagos there." I indicated Kenny, who pulled out a notepad. "Don't hold anything back. I've got something else in mind for you after he's done asking questions."

Sophia cleared her throat. "Ah, unless you want to dispute jurisdiction with the PRT over who gets to hold on to knife-puppy here, we might want to move along. Pretty sure they're incoming, especially since I called them a little while ago and gave them this address."

I nodded. "Good idea. Let's do that."

<><>​

Dana McAllister

In the time it took for her to swing by the break room and Loncey to stack the paperwork they needed into a Manila folder, Stafford had been moved into an interrogation room. She leaned into the observation room and made sure the camera was running before she approached the door itself. Pausing before opening it, she turned to Loncey. "If we have to go good-cop-bad-cop, you're bad cop."

Loncey frowned slightly. "Not sure if I've got the scowl for it, but okay."

"It's not that." She hooked her thumb at her chest. "I've seen his internet footprint. This is probably going to be the most interaction he's had with a real live woman outside of work in years. If I ask the right questions with a smile and a sympathetic ear, the only problem will be getting him to shut up."

He chuckled and shook his head. "How cynical can you get? If this was a movie, you'd be undoing the top couple of buttons on your shirt right about now."

"If this were the type of movie you're thinking about," she countered, "I'd have a double-D cup, supermodel looks, and the top couple of buttons on my shirt would always be undone. Also, you'd have sexy stubble and a six-pack rather than a five o'clock shadow and that donut gut."

"Ooh, ouch, I am undone." He grinned and clutched his chest roughly where his heart would be. "Let's get in there and find out what this idiot has to say."

She rolled her eyes at his clowning, opened the door, and entered the interrogation room.

<><>​

Rodney

When the door opened, Rodney looked around, not at all sure who would be coming in. It turned out to be a pair of cops; or rather, one uniformed male cop and a woman in plainclothes. The male cop gave him the stink-eye as he pulled out both chairs and they sat down, but the woman seemed to offer him a faint smile.

"Hello, Mr Stafford," the woman said, putting a cardboard coffee cup holder, holding three cups, on the table. Next to it, she placed a paper plate holding a slice of walnut cake. The tantalising odour of coffee and confectionary teased Rodney's nostrils. "I'm Detective McAllister, and this is Officer Loncey. Do you mind if we record this interview?"

"Uh …" Rodney's first instinct was to say 'yes, I totally mind' then his brain caught up with his mouth. He wanted as many recordings of what he had to say out there as possible. "No. No, I don't mind at all."

"Oh, good." She was definitely smiling now. Ignoring the Manila folder that the male cop had been carrying, she took a cup of coffee from the holder. "Would you like one? I get the impression that it's been a very long and trying day for you."

"Uh, yes, please." He reached out with his cuffed hands, and accepted the coffee.

As he took his first sip, she placed a digital recorder on the table and pressed the button. "Detective Dana McAllister, with Officer Dalton Loncey, interviewing Rodney Stafford." She recited the time and date, then turned a benign gaze on Rodney. "Have the cake too, if you want. I know it's not much, but it's all we had in the break room."

"Thank you," he blurted, grabbing the plate and pulling it over to himself. She didn't stop him from picking up the slice in both hands and taking a large bite; it tasted even better than it smelled.

She beamed at him. "You're welcome. So, it seems we're a bit behind the eight-ball. Strange things are happening, but we don't know why. And now it seems you know why. Would you mind filling us in?"

"Wait," the uniformed cop said. "Have you been read your rights?"

Rodney looked up from the cake. "Yeah, yeah, they did that before."

"And you're willing to talk to us without a lawyer present?" asked the lady detective.

What the hell use was a lawyer going to be with an imminent zombie apocalypse to avert? "Totally."

Detective McAllister nodded. "So what is going on? What's this about zombies?"

"You don't know about the zombies?" Why doesn't this surprise me?

She shared a glance with the officer and they both shrugged before she gave him her full attention once more. "Everyone's been holding out on us, until you showed up. Tell me all about the zombies."

It was as though the heavens had opened and a ray of sunlight had illuminated the room, complete with angels singing hosannas. This was exactly what Rodney wanted to hear. He started talking, filling in more and more details with each helpful question.

Oh, thank God. It's a miracle. They're listening to me. We're going to save the city.

<><>​

Miss Militia

Holding a sniper rifle over her shoulder, Hannah watched as the PRT troopers went from body to body. Some were secured, others appeared too badly injured to move on their own, and a few were clearly dead. The pièce de résistance of the show was Stormtiger, who was barely conscious even now. His arms were both broken and severely dislocated, to the point that it seemed someone had come close to literally tearing them off his body.

"Some of these men have been shot," reported Lieutenant Grant, coming up to her. "A lot were beaten, and a few have other wounds. But there's one I'm thinking you should see."

She figured the whole area was something she should see, and in fact was drawing lines of fire in her mind while looking it over. However, she was always interested in seeing something new. "Lead the way."

The body he indicated was close to one of the exits, and had almost certainly been attempting to escape before he suffered the ghastly wound that had essentially ripped out one side of his ribcage. She looked down at the man, judging that the fatal injury had been either a blue-on-blue by Stormtiger, or he'd been executed on the fly for cowardice. But Grant wouldn't waste her time on something so simple, so there had to be something she was missing. Glancing at the lieutenant, she raised her eyebrows in a silent query.

He gestured at the body. "Where's the blood?" His pointing finger followed a line of footprints, leading back to a large pool of mostly-congealed gore. "More to the point, how did he lose all that blood there, then still have the strength to get up and run in this direction, then suddenly die right here? It wasn't a gradual loss of strength. He went from full on to full off like someone flipped a switch. When he landed, he skidded."

"Oh." She looked back along the line of footprints, then down at the body again. Now that he'd pointed it out, she could see it clearly. "That's … definitely strange. Are we sure that's his blood back there?"

"Nobody else who's in or near it has injuries big enough to contribute meaningfully to it." He shrugged. "And if that isn't his blood … where is it? With a wound like that, there's not going to be a lot left inside his body."

He had a point. The simplest explanation was indeed that a man who should've been dead had gotten up, stepped in his own pool of blood, bolted for the exit, then dropped dead for real. She would've suspected a trigger event, but those generally worked to help the new cape to survive whatever had caused it.

"So who called this in, anyway?" she asked. Maybe that would give them a clue as to what had happened, and who had brutalised Stormtiger so thoroughly. Without extensive surgery, the guy was never going to regain anywhere near full use of his arms.

(She wasn't going to come straight out and say that this was an amazing example of karma in action, but it totally was.)

Grant held up a hand. "One second. Got a call coming in."

"Okay." She stepped away to give him his privacy, and examined the scene again. The lack of animals in cages told her that this hadn't been a dog-fight setup. However, there had evidently been fighting of some description planned, given the small pile of hand weapons in the middle of the floor. Some kind of grudge match? Maybe an initiation? Whatever it was, to have both Stormtiger and Hookwolf present (the snapped-off blades were impossible to mistake for anything else), it had to be reasonably important.

Which led to the next question: where's Hookwolf? From what she'd seen of the man, it would take extreme odds to force him to abandon a comrade and run from a fight, but he had been in the building and now he wasn't. Had he gotten the upper hand and chased the opposition away? Technically possible, but from Stormtiger's injuries, she suspected that wouldn't turn out to be the case.

She was watching the techs load Stormtiger onto a stretcher—they'd be strapping him down, but right now he was pumped full of sedatives so he didn't start throwing around air-blades in the ambulance—when Grant cleared his throat to get her attention. "Done now," he said. "Some detective from the BBPD wanted my input on that trigger case in Brockton General. Teenage girl raising the dead."

"Raising the dead?" The click of connection in her mind was almost audible as she turned back to the Dead Man Running, as she'd labelled the guy in her mind. "Like that one? He was dead, she raises him for whatever reason, he tries to bolt … did she say if she could un-raise them?"

"She certainly did." Grant sounded like he wanted to face-palm. "Why didn't I see it before? According to her, she just pulls her power away from them and they just go back to being dead again. And get this, when she raises someone, if she's in what she calls power mode, they're a lot stronger and faster than normal."

"Strong enough to beat the living snot out of Stormtiger, and to subdue Hookwolf enough to abduct him?" suggested Hannah. "Those guys over there looked like they got thrown into walls."

Grant nodded. "Definitely strong enough for that. The trouble is, until one of them is lucid enough to answer questions, we're going to be missing the answers to the big ones." His gesture took in the whole scene. "Such as: what were they doing here that Animator's crew decided to bust in and take them down?"

Hannah suddenly had an unpleasant epiphany. "What if they didn't come here to bust up whatever Hookwolf and Stormtiger were doing, but to abduct Hookwolf? Do we have any way of telling if Animator's capable of controlling her subjects, once they're Animated?"

He shook his head. "They tried an experiment in the hospital, just before we got there. Raised a Merchant ganger, who went berserk before Animator pulled the plug on him. Unless the whole thing was staged to make us think she can't control people—and I didn't get the impression they were thinking that far ahead—I'm pretty sure she can't. Are you thinking they came here to kill Hookwolf and turn him into an Animated?"

"If she can't automatically control them, no," Hannah said slowly. "But I think you're at least partly right. They killed him, then she brought him back, and he left with them for reasons unknown."

"I know why he left with them." Grant pointed at the Dead Man Running. "Once she brought him back, she raised this guy and demonstrated how easily she could put him back down. Whatever they wanted him for, he decided that cooperation was the easiest way to stay alive … well, Animated."

Hannah nodded. "Yeah, that tracks. So, if they didn't come here for him, why did they come here? What were the Empire guys doing that drew their attention? Why did they literally kick the door in and come in swinging?"

Grant led the way to the small pile of weapons, still lying on the ground. "I'm thinking a bunch of Empire goons were being initiated. See those? They're about as crappy as you can get, and still be usable. They've been used, dozens of times. If they abducted some minority off the street, put him in the middle of a bunch of wannabe Empire recruits, and they fight until someone puts him down …"

'Initiation' had been one of her guesses, and his analysis nailed it down for her. "That makes a lot of sense, yeah. So, I'm thinking the abductee was important to Animator or one of her people, which is why they came in hard and fast."

"Not Animator." Grant shook his head. "Her father was her only family in town, and he was one of the first people she Animated. But she'd also Animated a black girl, who might easily have had friends or family taken for an initiation like that."

"That actually gives us some interesting data," she mused. "If it was indeed an Animated dead person's kin who was in trouble, this means the Animated are still capable of feeling emotions and acting on them, and Animator cares enough about their feelings that she will help them out."

"Huh. You're right." He paused. "So, if they killed Hookwolf, Animated him, then took him with them … why?"

She shrugged. "To hide the evidence that they'd killed him?"

His tone suggested a grimace. "Or maybe they've got some half-assed plan of infiltrating him back into his old gang, to bring them down from the inside? Because that never goes wrong."

She shared his lack of optimism. "Well, until we can get one of them in front of us to find out, it looks like we're just going to have to wait until we're cleaning up the mess before we know one way or the other."

"Ain't that the truth."

Director Piggot, she already knew, was really not going to like this development.

<><>​

Dana McAllister

"Okay." Dana checked her notes. "So, Stafford's boss Dr Cartwright told us that Lieutenant Grant of the PRT attended the call at the Brockton General, which Grant verified. He also gave me verbal descriptions of the people involved, which match the medical records Stafford was trying to steal. Grant also warned me that as capes are involved, secret identities could make for tricky legal situations if we start spreading too much information around."

"Have the Heberts or the Hess girl even done anything for us to look at them as capes or cape-adjacent, or is it just Stafford and Calvert?" asked Loncey. "Because they aren't capes, right? Or at least, I hope to God Stafford isn't."

They shared a mutual shudder at the thought.

"We honestly don't know about Calvert yet," Dana warned him. "Might be, might not be. Trying to get control over a new cape who can get dead men up and walking is something I can totally see a supervillain doing."

Loncey frowned. "I think I saw that plot on a Saturday morning cartoon once."

"Life sometimes imitates art. Also, supervillains probably watch Saturday morning cartoons too." Dana straightened her notes. "But you're right. We can leave the Heberts and Hess out of the spotlight and focus on Stafford and Calvert. Right now, specifically, Calvert."

"Think he'll crack for a cup of coffee and a slice of walnut cake?"

She snorted. Stafford hadn't been so much an interrogation as a confessional. "Somehow, I doubt it."

<><>​

Coil

Thomas looked up as a female detective, along with a uniformed officer, entered the interrogation room. He'd been waiting for this moment, but the length of time they'd taken to get around to talking to him was both encouraging and worrying. It either meant that they didn't think he was all that important in the grand scheme of things, or that they thought he was very important indeed, and had taken all this time to get their ducks solidly in a row.

Following the both of them was a rumpled-looking man with a briefcase, who he identified all too easily as a lawyer. This concerned him; the fact that they'd taken the time to arrange a public defender suggested that they thought he might use the lack of one as a delaying tactic. Which he totally would have, given the chance.

"Hello, Mr Calvert." The public defender stepped over to his side of the table. "I'm Chuck O'Dwyer. I've been asked to represent you, unless you have another lawyer you'd like to call on?"

Thomas would have loved to possess sufficient cash reserves to have a lawyer on speed-dial. Unfortunately, this was not the case, and right now he did need someone to spot any legal loopholes that he might miss. "No, I'm sure you're competent enough at your job."

"Great!" O'Dwyer beamed, apparently oblivious to the back-handed compliment. Pulling out the chair next to Thomas, he sat down. "Now, the information I've been given is that you've already been read your Miranda rights. Is that correct?"

"I have, yes." Thomas knew denying it at this juncture would delay matters only by a few minutes.

"Excellent." O'Dwyer tapped his fingertips together. "So, is there anything at all you want to fill me in on before this interview starts?" He looked meaningfully at the two law-enforcement personnel. "I'm sure they won't mind stepping out for a few minutes."

Thomas didn't really have a plan yet, but he was nothing if not an eternal opportunist. "Yes, I do want to talk to you in private." As he said the words, he split timelines.

Coil: Timeline "Negotiation"

He waited until the door closed behind the pair, then turned to his lawyer. Keeping his voice down and his back to the mirrored window, he let some of the desperation he was feeling creep into his voice. "You've got to get me out of this! That little shit Stafford stole from me, and pretended he was going to sell my own property back to me, but the cops were after him for something else. Now they've got him, but I'm willing to bet he's trying to say I made him do it, and since when does a black man get a fair deal in this city? Half the cops are Empire sympathisers as it is."

O'Dwyer's eyes widened. "Why didn't you tell them that at the scene?"

Thomas snorted. "Because when they showed up, I was pointing my pistol at him. An armed black man in a confrontation with police has exactly one chance to drop the gun and do exactly as he's told; otherwise, he's likely to end up as a statistic on the nine o'clock news."

"Right, okay." O'Dwyer was clearly trying to process this new information. "Please tell me you're licensed to carry concealed, at least."

"Not as such, no." Thomas sighed with the aggravation he was feeling about the whole situation. "I used to be, when I was in the PRT, but they pulled my accreditation once I left. But I was going to meet someone who had already stolen from me once, and I wasn't going to give him a second chance at it."

"Okay, okay, got it." O'Dwyer seemed to go over options in his mind for a few moments, then his eyes focused again. "I can maybe work with that, plead you down to a lesser charge. So, what did Stafford steal from you? If they found it on him, that'll boost your case a lot."

This was the linch-pin of the whole fabricated story. "My medal case. It had all my awards and medals from my time in the PRT." He tightened his lips and let his focus drift until it would seem as though he was looking through the far wall, in the best approximation of a 'thousand-yard stare' that he could manage. "Two of us came out of Ellisburg alive. I still regret the choices I made that day."

"Jesus." O'Dwyer shook his head. "I'm sorry, man. I'll do my best for you."

Thomas nodded. "I appreciate it."

Coil: Timeline "Escape"

He waited until the door closed behind the pair, then turned to his lawyer. "Give me your pen and notepad. I want to keep notes once they start interrogating me."

"Okay, sure. Did you want me to take the notes instead?"

"No, you focus on stopping them from pulling legal bullshit on me." He accepted the pen, noting with satisfaction that while the pen was cheap, the clip was made of metal. O'Dwyer put the pad in front of him, and he pretended to fiddle with the pen. In reality, he was twisting and bending the clip so that he could use it to unlock the cuffs at an opportune moment.

Any kind of serious digging on their part would screw him over no matter what he said to them, unless he could talk his way out of this within the next thirty minutes. His only chance would be to throw Stafford under the bus as hard as possible, and hope like hell they were lazy enough to grab the bait and not investigate him too closely. If he'd had the chance to prep for this eventuality, his chances would've been a lot better, but sometimes shit just happened.

Not to me. I'll get out of this, I'll arrange Stafford's accidental death, and plant enough evidence to throw it all back on him.

This is the sort of shit I took that vial to get away from.

<><>​

Dana McAllister

When they came back into the room (at O'Dwyer's invitation) Dana noted that Calvert had a pen and notepad at the ready. If the man wanted to take notes, she had no problem with that, though she decided to have words with his lawyer afterward about giving his client items without running it past her first. "So, are we ready to continue?" she asked.

"Certainly." O'Dwyer sat down next to Calvert. "You may commence the interview."

"Thank you." Dana introduced herself and Loncey, went through the rigmarole with the digital recorder, then came in guns blazing. "Mr Calvert, where do you know Rodney Stafford from?"

He managed to pull off a reasonable facsimile of confusion. "I'm sorry, I don't know anyone of that name." Such was his poker face that Dana may have been taken in by his bullshit if she hadn't known the truth.

"That's interesting," she countered. "He says you came to his apartment, to talk about the problem posed by one of the patients in your hospital. He also said that you requested the medical records of four people, and that you would raise concerns in the PRT. Do you have anything to say to that?"

"I say that this Mr Stafford is either lying or confused." Again, he was so smooth with his bullshit that she could almost swear he believed it himself. "As I said, I know nobody of that name. So any claim that I've gone to his apartment would have to be false. And I certainly would not incite anyone to steal medical records. I believe there are stringent laws against that sort of thing."

"Yes, Mr Calvert, there are. So you're trying to tell me that when you encountered him in the Sit & Sip Café, you had never met him before?"

"What happened in the café was a misunderstanding of the highest order." He was now radiating embarrassment, a good trick in a man she suspected wouldn't know what shame was if it walked up and bit him. "I thought he'd stolen my wallet and stashed it in the bag he was carrying. He'd brushed past me earlier, you see. I demanded to see in the bag, but he refused." He shrugged, managing to look sheepish. "As it turns out, I had it in another pocket. Sheer carelessness. But in the meantime, one mistake escalated into another, and events went far out of control."

"If by 'far out of control' you mean that you pulled a gun and shoved it in his face just before the police raided the café and arrested both of you, then I would be forced to agree." Dana shuffled her notes for show. "Why were you carrying a gun, anyway? You're not licensed to carry concealed, and you haven't been since you were booted out of the PRT."

O'Dwyer cleared his throat. "Ah, Detective? I believe the whys and wherefores of him being armed are separate from the matter at hand with this Mr Stafford, and these medical records you're speaking of."

"Alright. Let me rephrase that. Why were you illegally carrying concealed today, when going to a crowded coffee shop? You have to know if the PRT caught wind of that, you'd lose your consultancy position with them in a heartbeat."

"Sometimes I feel I need to protect myself and my property, and sometimes I don't." Calvert's tone was so smooth, it could've been used as a skating rink. "This was one of the days when I did."

"Okay, so why were you in that coffee shop at all?"

"Detective, occasionally a man feels the need to buy slightly overpriced coffee, just for the experience. Today was one of those days." Now he was just baiting her.

"Possibly. But I think you were going there to meet Mr Stafford, for the handover of the medical information. Do you deny that?"

He snorted derisively. "Of course I deny it. I already told you, I'd never met the man, and I certainly didn't ask him to steal medical data—or any other kind—for me."

"So this note means nothing to you?" She put the Post-It note Loncey had found, now encased in an evidence bag, on the table. Meet TC at S&S. Do not forget!

His eyes widened only the barest millimetre, but she spotted it. This was definitely a nasty surprise for him. "There would have to be hundreds or thousands of people with the initials 'TC' in this city."

"And yet the only one he encounters, who puts a gun in his face and tries to take something from him, is you. In the Sit & Sip. Loncey, play it."

"Ma'am." Loncey, silent up until now, pulled out the second digital recorder they'd prepped and queued up in anticipation of this, and pressed the Play button.

'Do you recognise this note?' Her own voice came out of the tinny speaker.

'Sure!' Stafford's voice definitely got Calvert's attention. 'I wrote it to remind myself of the meeting.' His voice dropped. 'But I screwed it up. I screw everything up.'

'I wouldn't say that.' She'd spoken warmly to him, and he'd perked right up at the implied praise. 'So what do the initials mean, anyway?'

'Oh, it was just a reminder to meet Mr Calvert—his first name's Thomas, and he used to be a Lieutenant in the PRT—at the Sit & Sip Café, and hand over the stuff I got from the hospital.'

Dana made a gesture, and Loncey stopped the playback. Calvert's face seemed to have frozen, his eyes flicking from point to point in the room as though he was trying to figure out how to discredit what they'd all heard. The silence stretched on; Dana had broken more than a few cases just by letting a suspect stew in his own juices.

"Uh, Detective," O'Dwyer managed, through what sounded like a suddenly dry throat. "I'm going to want a copy of the recording, so I can listen to it all the way through and ensure you didn't prompt the young man earlier."

Dana smiled. "Totally doable. We both know you won't find anything untoward on it." She returned her attention to Calvert. "So, if you've never met the man before, how is it that he knew your first name and your previous affiliation with the PRT?"

With a visible effort, Calvert rallied. "He'd clearly looked me up online. I do have a presence there. A sufficiently skilled hacker would be able to ferret out those details and more. It's entirely possible that he set this whole thing up in advance, planting the note because he knew he was being followed, then brushing past me to make me think he'd stolen something and luring me into the shop, where we were both arrested. His whole ploy is to make you think I'm the mastermind here."

Dana nodded slowly. "Now that's a theory I like. It shows imagination and resourcefulness. What do you think, Loncey?"

Loncey barely hesitated. This was another thing they'd discussed. "It covers nearly everything, ma'am. Just one question, though. When I found the note, it was half-under the fridge, covered in dust. How did Mr Stafford know when he was writing it last night that Mr Calvert would be near the Sit & Sip at the exact moment he would be walking in?"

"Good point, Loncey." There were considerable benefits, Dana decided, in having a sidekick who could follow direction and think on his feet. "So, Mr Calvert, can you fill in that little hole in your explanation?"

Calvert coughed, his throat sounding dry. "Could I perhaps trouble you for a soda? I haven't had anything to drink for hours."

Loncey shrugged. "I'll get it, ma'am."

"Thank you, Loncey." Dana reached over to the digital recorder. "Pausing interview at …" She checked her watch and rattled off the time, then pressed pause. "Go ahead."

Loncey got up and let himself out of the interview room. Dana leaned back in her chair and looked Calvert over. She didn't say what she was thinking—that this was a transparent ploy to gain some time for him to think of a way around the damning evidence of the note—because the last thing she wanted was for O'Dwyer to put in a complain about her 'bullying' his client.

"Detective?" asked O'Dwyer, breaking into her thoughts.

She looked over at him. "Yes?"

"May I see that note, please?"

"Certainly." She smiled and handed it over. "Don't remove it from the evidence bag, of course."

"Of course." He accepted it and began to examine it closely. "Are you going to have many more surprises like—"

The handcuff came off Calvert's left wrist and he was out of his chair and around the desk like a striking snake, open cuff hanging free. Dana was caught off-guard, shocked and surprised at the sudden movement; he punched her in the chest, just below the throat, and she went over backward with him on top of her.

O'Dwyer cried out, but she ignored him, as she was fighting for her life. She was good at fighting, and she was strong, but he had greater reach and knew more dirty tricks than she did. They rolled back and forth, grabbing and gouging at each other, his skinny frame apparently much stronger than it looked.

She went for a groin strike, but he was wise to that one, and dug a thumb in her eye. She recoiled and reached for the Glock 28 subcompact in her shoulder holster, but he punched her again, this time in the jaw, with stunning force.

By the time her head had cleared long enough for her to recall what she had to do, he had the pistol in his hand, and was standing over her. "You had to keep pushing," he sneered.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Loncey stepped in. "You didn't—" he was in the process of saying before he took in what was going on, and Calvert shot him. Subcombact or no, the sound of the .380 pistol was deafening in the small room, even with the acoustic tiles taking away most of it.

Stunned again, her ears ringing, Dana found herself hauled to her feet and dragged to the door. The hot muzzle of her own gun pressed up under the soft tissue of her jaw as Calvert forced her out into the corridor first. People were only just beginning to respond to the sound of the shot as he hustled her down the corridor. Most were not armed; at the sight of the pistol, they stepped back with their hands in plain view.

"You'll never … get away," Dana slurred, sure that he'd knocked a few teeth loose.

He sounded more confident than he should've been. "You'd be surprised. I'm lucky like that."

<><>​

Five Minutes Later

Coil

The wire gate barring the exit from the police car compound smashed aside as Thomas put his foot down and peeled out of there. He knew he was going to have to ditch the car as soon as he could, but he was out of custody, and that was the main thing. Now all he had to do was keep balancing his choices and he'd be free and clear by morning.

He knew he really should've put a bullet in McAllister and Stafford, but the latter would've been pushing his luck far too much, and killing McAllister would've done nothing to slow down the chase that would be roaring after him in very short order. Besides, it would've been a waste of ammunition, and he needed every bullet he had right now.

Well, shit. Looks like 'supervillain' is now my full-time job. Goddamn it.

He'd manage—he always managed—but it was just another roadblock in the way of his dreams of running the whole damn city.

One day.

<><>​

Animator

We sat at a table on the Boardwalk, Hookwolf wearing a hoodie we'd gotten for him, and sipped at our drinks. Hookwolf—or Brad, now that we knew his real name—seemed surprised that he still enjoyed it. "So, what now?" he asked. "You've got everything out of me that I knew about the Empire."

"And you're absolutely certain that Max Anders is Kaiser, and the rest of it? You're not just pulling some colossal prank on us?" That bit of information had surprised the hell out of all of us, especially Kenny.

Brad shrugged. "If you find out I'm lying, I'm worm food again. Besides, that Nazi Heil-Hitler crap was never really my thing. It was more an excuse to hit people and break shit, know what I mean?"

"The real question is," Dad posited, "now that we know it, what do we do with it? If Anders is anywhere near as careful as I think he'll be, proving it will be a nightmare."

Sophia grinned. "Oh, I dunno. Now that I know where to look, sneaking around and getting pictures should be dead easy."

"Emphasis on 'dead', as in 'really dead'," I cautioned her. "We still don't know if electricity can disrupt you anymore, or if it'll just shut you down for good."

We all turned to look at Brad, and he sighed theatrically. "I know that fuckin' look. It's the look the asshole turncoat gets given just before they hand him a wire to wear an' go back inside the bunch he just walked away from."

"Well, you are our best bet for a spy," Kenny pointed out logically.

Brad glowered at him. "Just tell me one thing. Are you just gonna be going after the Empire, or are you gonna be kicking Lung's shit in too? Because even with everyone in this little play-group stronger an' faster than normal, you're gonna need me to bring him down. Tell me I'm wrong."

"Oh," I said, "once I brought you back, the plan always was for you to beat up on Lung."

He smiled for the first time since he'd begun his new lease on unlife. "Now we're fuckin' talking."



End of Part Fourteen