Another Last Embryo

[Nephthys8079]

(Sorry I mixed a old edit n posted it and I keep posting the wrong one fuck here's the right one I made 100% sure this time)

Prelude — The Child Who Fell From the Sky

There were no witnesses.
No thunder, no screaming tear in the sky. Just a shimmer — the brief distortion of reality folding over itself — and a small body falling through.

The desert of Little Garden burned gold that day. On one side of the collapsing battlefield stood Azi Dahaka, the three-headed dragon whose malice could devour worlds. On the other, Izayoi Sakamaki, whose laughter mocked gods even as his fists shattered constellations.
The air itself had stopped knowing what "real" meant.

And in that impossible clash, something broke. A fragment of power, of identity — Izayoi's defiance and will — was ripped from him and molded into something new.

A child.
Small. Fragile. Screaming.

Azi Dahaka's creation, born from his enemy's strength. A clone not of flesh but of concept — a being that should not exist.

Before the dragon could claim his victory, the world rebelled.
Space screamed. The child vanished.


---

When she opened her eyes again, she wasn't in Little Garden. She was in a crib, wrapped in cheap hospital blankets, in a city that smelled of rust and salt.
The nurses called her a miracle baby.
The doctors wrote found in a flash of light.
The couple that took her in — gentle people named the Raines — simply smiled and said, "Then maybe she's meant for something bright."


---

Years passed.
Chloe Raines grew up in Brockton Bay, a city held together by broken glass and tired hope.
By twelve, she was already outpacing everyone — teachers, classmates, even adults. She fixed machines that shouldn't work, recited theories that shouldn't be possible, and laughed at every limit the world tried to give her.

A genius.
A nuisance.
A girl who felt like the universe was playing a joke she hadn't been told yet.

Sometimes, when she stared at the night sky, she swore she could hear something whisper —
like a memory of laughter in a world that didn't exist.


---

Tomorrow would be her first day at Winslow Middle School.
Another dull, ordinary start in a city that couldn't see the storm quietly waiting to wake inside her.

 

[Lord of the First Flame]

Synopsis:
Chloe Raines died with a wish on her lips — to be strong enough to live freely, like the hero she admired in the pages of a book.

When she opens her eyes again, the world is unfamiliar.
Rust in the air. Rain on her skin. A city that feels half-asleep and half-rotting, clinging to a heartbeat that refuses to stop.

Brockton Bay is a place where dreams are dangerous and hope is a luxury. Yet somehow, Chloe finds herself smiling — because even here, there's movement, there's life, and maybe… there's a chance to start over.

Her path crosses with a girl named Sophia Hess, whose eyes burn with the same restless energy, the same hunger to run. Between them begins a bond neither of them understand — one built on defiance, motion, and the quiet promise of freedom.

Two girls, one broken city, and a story that begins again where it once should have ended.
The gears of fate are turning once more.

Click to shrink...

There's something off about this chapter but I can't quite put my finger on what it is.

 

[Nephthys8079]

There's something off about this chapter but I can't quite put my finger on what it is.

Click to shrink...

.....yeah I noticed every single time damn it

 

[Nephthys8079]

Brockton Bay never really slept — it just dozed with one eye open.
Streetlights flickered off puddles, sirens sighed somewhere far away, and the air smelled faintly of salt and rust.

Chloe Raines walked the cracked sidewalk like she owned it, light-blonde hair jutting out in short spikes, white headphones hanging around her neck. The red flame emblem on the sides caught every glint of passing light, pulsing in rhythm with the faint bass line thumping through them.

"Same city, different circus," she muttered.

It wasn't her first transfer. She'd been through more schools than she could count on one hand.
Southside Prep — expelled for "provoking" a teacher.
Arcadia's feeder — suspended for "escalating" an argument.
And now Winslow Middle, Brockton Bay's dumping ground for the terminally unlucky and the willfully defiant.

Her mother had called it "a chance to start over."
Chloe called it inevitable chaos with better lighting.

She kicked a pebble down the gutter and grinned faintly. "Maybe I'll make it through the week this time."


---

Home wasn't far — a two-story townhouse leaning just slightly to one side, its paint faded by salt air and time. She unlocked the door, stepped in, and was met by silence. Her adoptive dad was probably still pouring concrete down at the docks, and her mom's night shift at the hospital wouldn't end until morning.

She tossed her backpack onto the couch, dropped beside it, and stared up at the ceiling fan wobbling on its last leg.

A folded note sat on the counter beside a cold sandwich and a thermos of tea.

> Chloe — try not to get into trouble tomorrow. Please. Love, Mom.



She smirked. "No promises."

Her reflection in the microwave looked back — violet eyes bright with mischief, a grin halfway between confident and daring.
No one ever asked why she didn't resemble her parents. She'd been adopted young, found rather than born here. The whispers never bothered her — she liked being an anomaly. Normal was boring.

Still, this city was hers. The cracked streets, the constant noise, the storm-stained skies — Brockton Bay felt alive, and so did she.

When she flicked the light switch, nothing happened. Twice.
"Of course," she sighed, heading for the breaker box in the laundry room. One flipped switch later, the house buzzed awake again. "There we go. Genius at work."

In her room, she scanned her clothes — a messy blend of hoodies, jackets, jeans, and shirts in every shade of defiance. She grabbed a yellow tee and her favorite red zip-vest, tugging them on over gray jeans.
No uniform, no rules worth following. Just how she liked it.

"First day at Winslow," she muttered, tightening the straps on her backpack. "New battlefield, same me."

The clock read 6:42 a.m. Outside, the sky was still bruised from dawn, the wet pavement gleaming faintly in the light.

She slung her headphones back on, music filling the quiet as she stepped onto the porch.

"Let's make some trouble."

And with that, Chloe Raines — Brockton Bay's self-proclaimed problem child, genius, and inevitable storm in human form — started walking toward Winslow Middle.

The day hadn't begun yet, but for Chloe, the fun already had.


The morning air in Brockton Bay was crisp and faintly metallic — the kind of smell that came from salt, rust, and too many years of neglect. Chloe shoved her hands into the pockets of her red vest as she stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk, the loose gravel crunching beneath her worn sneakers. Her headphones hung around her neck, a faint pulse of bass leaking from them like a heartbeat.

She tilted her head toward the rising sun. The light washed her golden hair into a brighter shade, catching on each unruly spike as the wind swept through.

"Another day, another round of trouble," she muttered, smirking to herself. "Let's see who picks a fight first."

The streets were already alive in that specific Brockton Bay way — dull voices, car horns, someone yelling about rent two blocks over. The city had a pulse, and she could feel it thrumming through her veins. Every sound, every flicker of motion tugged at her heightened senses. It wasn't power that let her sense things like this; it was instinct — the kind born from being too sharp for a world too dull.

She passed a group of older kids loitering near a convenience store. They quieted when they saw her. Chloe didn't look their way, but she could feel their stares — that mix of curiosity and wariness that came from knowing her reputation. A single, lazy glance from her purple eyes was enough to make them turn away.

Smart choice.

Her mind wandered as her feet carried her through the cracked streets and peeling paint of the Docks district. She remembered the last school she'd been kicked out of — a fancy one uptown, where the teachers had called her "unmanageable." She'd laughed at that. It wasn't her fault that people didn't like losing arguments or being proven wrong by a twelve-year-old.

Still, her parents' patience had run out. Winslow had been the last resort. The "public system." The place they sent kids who didn't fit anywhere else.

"Perfect match, huh," Chloe said with a small grin. "Guess we'll see if this place can keep up."

By the time she reached Winslow Middle, the morning rush was in full swing. The building loomed ahead like a relic — chipped bricks, flickering lights, windows that hadn't been washed since forever. Students clustered in small groups across the front steps, laughing, complaining, pretending to care.

Chloe adjusted her headphones, the red flame logos on the sides catching the light, and sauntered up the path. Conversations dimmed as she passed. Some recognized her; others just felt that air around her — the kind of presence that said don't push me unless you're ready for what happens next.

Her grin widened.
Finally, something that might not be boring.

She pushed open the front doors of Winslow, the hinges groaning like the building itself was sighing. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the halls already smelled faintly of damp plaster and cafeteria mystery. Chloe cracked her neck once, her eyes scanning the students ahead.

If this was going to be her new battlefield, then fine — she'd make it interesting.

---

The bell had already rung by the time Chloe reached the main hall.

Winslow Middle was alive with noise—shoes squeaking, chatter bouncing off the walls, the occasional slam of a locker echoing like a gunshot. Chloe drifted through it all, her white headphones looped around her neck, the faint scent of chalk dust and disinfectant clinging to the air.

She felt the stares before she saw them.
A new face at Winslow was rare enough; one that carried herself like she owned the place was practically a miracle.

Chloe didn't mind the attention. Attention was fun—it meant there were pieces to move.

Her gaze moved lazily across the hall until it caught on a girl leaning against the lockers near the stairwell. Athletic, sharp eyes, skin a rich brown that gleamed faintly under the flickering lights. Her expression was the calm before a storm—amused, but edged.

Well, Chloe thought, there's my first spark of life.

Their eyes met, and in that instant, the crowd blurred out. Two predators, different jungles, same instinct.

Sophia Hess didn't say anything at first. She tilted her head slightly, like she was deciding whether to bother. Then—
"You look like you took a wrong turn."

Chloe smirked. "Oh? And here I thought this dump was supposed to be the right one."

Sophia's mouth twitched upward. "Transfer?"

"Guess the uniform gave it away."

Sophia raised a brow. "Winslow doesn't have uniforms."

"Exactly," Chloe said, deadpan, and started walking again.

It was ridiculous how easily she could pick up on the pecking order. The students who hugged the walls, the ones who strutted like they had backup, the exhausted teachers who already looked defeated. It was all a game board, and all she had to do was watch for five seconds to see how every piece moved.

Sophia stepped off the locker as Chloe passed, falling into step beside her. "So what's your deal, new girl?"

"Do I need one?"

"You're walking around like you own the place."

"I thought you said I took a wrong turn," Chloe said, voice dry. "Make up your mind."

Sophia snorted. "Smartass."

"Guilty."

The warning bell shrieked above them. Students groaned, scattering like startled pigeons.

Sophia started toward the stairs. "You got your schedule yet?"

"Right here." Chloe fished the folded paper from her pocket and glanced at it. "Homeroom B-3. Looks like the universe's idea of a joke."

Sophia's eyebrows rose. "Same as me."

"Well," Chloe said, grinning, "either fate's got a sense of humor or we're about to find out how fast detention works around here."

"Don't worry," Sophia said, leading the way. "I'll make sure you don't trip on your way there."

"Oh, that's cute. You think I trip."

The banter carried them down the hall. Sophia didn't realize it yet, but she was smiling—a real one, small and fleeting, the kind that didn't come around much.

For Chloe, the tension she'd been carrying that morning melted into something lighter. She wasn't sure what it was—something about Sophia's energy, the faint challenge in her tone, the way she didn't back down or try to impress.

Finally, Chloe thought, someone who doesn't bore me.

By the time they stepped into B-3, the classroom was half-full. Conversations quieted as the two walked in—Chloe's bright hair catching the fluorescent glare, Sophia's steady pace cutting through the noise.

The teacher looked up, startled. "Ah, you must be the new transfer. Miss… Raines, was it?"

"Yup." Chloe flashed a peace sign. "Reporting for duty."

A few giggles ran through the room.

The teacher hesitated, sighed, then pointed toward the back. "You can take the seat behind Sophia."

Chloe smirked at Sophia as she passed. "Convenient."

Sophia rolled her eyes but didn't hide her grin. "Try not to kick my chair."

"No promises."

Chloe slid into her seat, resting her chin on her palm as the teacher droned through roll call. The voices around her faded into static. She wasn't listening. Her mind was already spinning with possibilities—the city outside, the challenge inside, and this sharp-eyed girl in front of her who just might make life interesting.

Sophia didn't glance back, but she could feel Chloe's gaze, steady and amused, like she was being studied. It wasn't uncomfortable. Just… strange.

For the first time in a while, Sophia didn't feel like snapping at someone.

---

(Chloe Raines POV)

The classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and disinfectant. Typical.

Chloe slouched into her seat near the back, second row from the windows, desk right behind Sophia Hess. A perfect vantage point — not that she planned to use it for anything useful. The morning sunlight cut through the cracked blinds in thin white bars, striping Sophia's long, straight hair like gold threads running through midnight. It swayed gently each time she shifted, annoyingly perfect and infuriatingly straight.

Chloe clicked her pen twice — a sharp pop echoing in rhythm with her heartbeat.

"Alright, settle down," came Mr. Gladwell's weary voice from the front. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, tie crooked in a way that screamed 'I've given up by second period.' He slapped a binder onto the desk with the exhausted air of a man barely clinging to patience. "We're covering the Protectorate and parahuman ethics today. Open your textbooks to chapter three."

Pages fluttered, a few groans followed. Chloe didn't bother opening hers.

She leaned back, pen spinning lazily between her fingers, her gaze fixed on the back of Sophia's head. Even sitting still, the girl had an animal tension to her — a quiet coil of movement, as if she could spring into motion at any moment. It wasn't fear. It was instinct. Control.

Mr. Gladwell started droning about the Powers Act of 1987. The man's voice could probably tranquilize a Tinkerbot.

Chloe blinked, then whispered just loud enough for herself, "Wake me when he starts juggling."

The kid two rows over snorted before clapping a hand over his mouth. Gladwell's tired eyes zeroed in immediately.

"Something funny, Miss Raines?"

Chloe looked up, expression all innocence. "Only the riveting pace of your lecture, sir."

A few students laughed; the tension broke. Sophia didn't turn around, but Chloe caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth — a small, unwilling smirk.

Gladwell exhaled like a man revisiting old mistakes. "Then you can demonstrate your enthusiasm by reading the next section aloud."

"Sure thing, teach."

Chloe stood, flipping open her book. Her voice was clear, precise — but laced with a mockery too subtle to be punished for. She turned the dry text about parahuman registration laws into performance art. Her tone hit every formal line like it was a punchline. By the time she reached the bit about "mandatory probationary periods for minors," the class was grinning.

Gladwell didn't even try to stop her. He knew better.

When she sat back down, Sophia murmured, "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"

Chloe smirked. "Only when I'm bored."

Sophia angled her head slightly, eyes still on her notes. "This is social studies, not a boxing ring."

"Everything's a ring if you're creative enough."

Sophia let out a quiet huff — amusement buried under a layer of dry detachment. Chloe noticed.

Gladwell's chalk screeched across the board as he wrote 'Responsibility & Power' in letters too large to miss. Chloe groaned softly and started doodling in her notebook instead — stick figures of capes mid-battle, ridiculous explosions, and, for some reason, a Tinker mech shaped like a toaster.

Every so often, her pen drifted. Lines curved into eyes, into faces she didn't remember, flashes of a place she'd never been. A hall bathed in aurora light. A broken star. Something that made her skin prickle before she shook it off.

Focus, Chloe.

Up front, Gladwell called on Sophia next. "Miss Hess, care to define 'ethical restraint'?"

Sophia didn't even blink. "It means not using what you've got just because you can."

"Concise," Gladwell said approvingly.

Chloe leaned forward. "So… restraint, huh? That's new."

Sophia didn't turn, but her tone was dry. "You'd be surprised what I can restrain myself from doing."

"Should I be flattered or scared?"

"Yes."

Chloe bit back a laugh, covering it with a cough. The two of them earned a brief glare from Gladwell, who returned to the board muttering about attention spans.

The lecture dragged. Words about accountability and lawful power melted into background noise. Chloe let her gaze wander to the window — cracked glass, rusted frames, faint graffiti scratched into the sill. Winslow wasn't a school so much as a test of patience.

Still, her eyes found Sophia again, her posture taut but deliberate. It was strange — Sophia had that air of someone who didn't want to stand out but couldn't help it. Like even sitting perfectly still, she took up space.

Gladwell moved on to vigilantism — the word perked Chloe's interest for the first time. Heroes, villains, people pretending they knew what they were doing. That was something she could at least pretend to care about.

He launched into the question. "Is vigilante action ever morally justified?"

He scanned the room. "Miss Raines."

Chloe blinked. "Uh, repeat the question?"

"Is it justified?"

Her grin was slow and sharp. "Sure. Sometimes the rules deserve to be broken."

Gladwell frowned. "By what standard?"

"By the one that actually works."

A few chuckles rippled through the room. Gladwell sighed. "Perhaps you'd like to elaborate."

"Sometimes," Chloe said, leaning on her elbow, "the system doesn't protect people who need it most. You wait long enough for someone else to act, you end up counting bodies. Some people don't like counting."

That silenced the laughter. Even Gladwell hesitated. "And what would that make you, Miss Raines?"

She thought about it, gaze flicking to the desk in front of her. "Someone who doesn't sit down and shut up, I guess."

A small, approving noise — not from the teacher, but Sophia. Almost too quiet to hear.

Gladwell exhaled. "Thank you. Anyone else?"

He moved on.

Sophia turned slightly, just enough for her profile to catch the light. "You really think that?" she murmured.

Chloe shrugged. "You don't?"

"I think people who say that usually want excuses."

"Maybe. Or maybe they're just tired of watching everyone else fail first."

That earned a look — sharp, evaluating. "You talk like you've been through a war."

"Maybe I just read a lot."

Sophia's lips curved faintly. "Sure you did."

The next thirty minutes dragged. Gladwell lectured; students pretended to care. Chloe scribbled half-legible notes, her handwriting looping lazily. Every so often, she caught herself staring out the window, lost in thoughts she didn't understand — flashes of light, of voices, of a strength that didn't belong to her and yet felt too familiar.

The memory itched.

"Alright," Gladwell said eventually, snapping the chalk between his fingers. "Take five minutes and write what you'd do if granted powers. Keep it thoughtful, not silly."

Pens hit paper.

Chloe hesitated for a moment before writing. Her mind supplied images — not heroism, not villainy. Just motion. Freedom. Breaking something open to see what lay beneath.

"I'd do what no one else dares to — break the game. Not to win, but to see what happens when the rules stop working."

She stared at it. The words felt like they weren't entirely hers. She underlined break the game once, then closed the notebook.

"Time," Gladwell said, collecting papers.

Sophia's hand brushed Chloe's when she passed hers back. The contact was brief, but a flicker of something electric passed between them — a silent exchange neither could name.

Gladwell flipped through the pages, muttering absent approval. Then the bell shrieked, sharp and metallic, cutting the tension like a blade.

The room erupted.

Chairs scraped, voices rose, laughter and complaints mixing into white noise. Sophia stood first, smooth as a shadow, slinging her bag over one shoulder. Chloe stretched her arms high, vertebrae popping, before grabbing her own things.

"Guess that's round one," she said under her breath.

Sophia turned, eyebrow raised. "You keeping score?"

"Always."

They met eyes then — brief but solid, the kind of look that carried a weight neither of them had words for. Not rivalry, not friendship, but recognition.

Sophia broke it first. "Don't get used to it."

"Too late." Chloe grinned, brushing past her toward the door. "See you next round, Hess."

Sophia shook her head, a quiet smile flickering as she followed.

As the two walked out into the hall — the chaos of Winslow's morning washing over them in waves — Chloe couldn't help the grin spreading across her face.

The day wasn't over. The battlefield was just getting interesting.


---

(Chloe Raines POV)

Winslow's cafeteria was a battlefield.

Not in the dramatic, explosions-and-glory sense — no, this was the quieter, more insidious kind of war. The kind fought over the last clean table, the edible section of a mystery-meat tray, and the right to exist without being stepped on by the school's social food chain.

Chloe surveyed it all with the same casual disinterest a predator might give a herd of grazing animals. Her backpack hung loosely from one shoulder, the strap half-hidden beneath the generous curve of her chest — not that she cared. The air smelled faintly of old grease, cheap pizza, and despair.

Sophia walked beside her, tray in hand, eyes scanning the crowd with that sharp, assessing glint she always had — the one that said threat, threat, maybe a challenge. She moved like she was made of coiled springs and unspoken intent, all sleek lines and silent watchfulness.

"You're looking at everyone like they owe you lunch money," Chloe said, snagging a carton of milk from the cooler.

Sophia didn't look up. "I'm making sure no one tries to take mine."

"Aw, paranoid already? I thought we were still in the 'mutual tolerance' stage of our friendship."

"Who said we were friends?"

Chloe smirked. "Who said we weren't?"

That earned her a sideways glance — dry, unreadable, but not dismissive. It was progress.

They found a mostly clean table near the back — close enough to the wall that no one could sneak up behind them. Chloe sat first, legs crossing lazily under the table, tray untouched for the moment. She poked at the unidentifiable lump of cafeteria meat with a plastic fork. It wobbled. Offended her on a spiritual level.

"I think it's still alive," she said.

"Don't play with it," Sophia replied, taking a bite of her apple with surgical precision.

"Play with it? I'm considering calling the PRT. It's clearly a biohazard."

"You're dramatic."

Chloe shrugged. "I call it coping."

For a moment, neither spoke. The noise of the cafeteria filled the gap — laughter, footsteps, someone throwing something that sounded like it shouldn't be throwable.

Then Sophia broke the silence. "You don't belong here."

Chloe arched a brow. "That supposed to be an insult?"

"It's an observation," Sophia said flatly, gaze steady. "You act like this place is beneath you."

"Maybe because it is."

"That kind of thinking gets you in trouble."

"Good thing I like trouble, then."

Sophia's lips twitched — not quite a smile, but a visible crack in the armor. "You sound like you mean it."

"I usually do."

Chloe leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand. "What about you, Miss Stoic? You've got that 'I could break someone's nose but won't because it'd be inconvenient' energy."

Sophia gave her a look that was part warning, part amusement. "You talk too much."

"Only when people are interesting."

That shut Sophia up for a second. Her gaze flicked away, to the far end of the cafeteria, where a group of older boys were laughing too loudly. The sound had a rough edge to it — mockery disguised as amusement.

Chloe followed her line of sight. "You know them?"

"Not worth knowing," Sophia muttered.

Chloe hummed. The kind of hum that wasn't agreement so much as curiosity. The boys looked like they'd been in and out of detention a few times — the type that mistook cruelty for confidence. She hated that type.

When one of them glanced their way, smirking, Chloe met his gaze and smiled — slow, sweet, and absolutely not kind. He looked away first.

Sophia noticed. "You enjoy that too much."

"Gotta take the small victories where you can," Chloe said, cracking open her milk carton. "Otherwise, what's the point?"

Sophia didn't answer, but something in her expression softened, just barely.

A few minutes passed. The noise in the cafeteria dimmed to a dull roar, like ocean waves crashing somewhere distant. Chloe's mind drifted again — flashes of light behind her eyes, a memory that didn't fit, a hand outstretched toward something vast and broken.

She blinked, shaking her head.

Sophia caught the motion. "You good?"

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"Dangerous habit."

"Eh. Thinking's never killed me before."

Sophia arched a brow. "Yet."

Chloe grinned. "See, that's the kind of optimism I like in a person."

Their banter flowed naturally now — a rhythm neither had planned but both instinctively fell into. For all their differences, there was something familiar in Sophia's restraint, something that mirrored the energy burning under Chloe's own skin.

They were both restless. Both tired of pretending to be smaller than they were.

The bell rang eventually, shrill and unforgiving. Trays clattered as students scrambled to dump leftovers and flee toward their next classes.

Chloe stood, stretching her arms overhead, her spine cracking with satisfying precision. "Well, lunch was enlightening."

Sophia tossed her apple core in the trash. "If by enlightening you mean exhausting, sure."

"You wound me, Hess. I thought we were bonding."

"We weren't."

"Denial's a stage of friendship, y'know."

Sophia rolled her eyes but didn't argue — and that, to Chloe, was victory enough.

As they stepped out into the hallway, shoulder to shoulder amid the tide of students, Chloe glanced sideways. "So, what's next period?"

"PE," Sophia said, tone neutral but with a glint that made Chloe grin.

"Oh good," she said. "Something I can actually win at."

"We'll see."

And for the first time all day, Sophia's smirk matched Chloe's — sharp, challenging, alive.